


Shattering Into Pieces

by TCRegan



Series: A Thousand Little Pieces [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Kink Meme, M/M, Psychological Torture, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is taken prisoner by the templars and held against his will under the Gallows. Made to submit to their torment, he slowly loses his grip on reality.</p>
<p>Written in response to the kink meme prompt here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11099.html?thread=43328347#t43328347</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OP wanted some specific things, I hope I've hit them all. This will be done in two parts as I felt it was more fitting that way. Enjoy. :)

"Fine! But I won't forget how you blackmailed me into it!"

Hawke slammed the clinic door on his way out, missing the angry and hurt look on his lover's face as he stormed through Darktown. How _dare_ he? Hawke had been nothing but supportive of Anders for years. And now to accuse him of not wanting to help simply because he asked him for a bit of information? Hadn't he tromped through the sewers for the sela petrae? Fought off more dragons in the Bone Pit so Anders could collect his drakestone? He'd even helped Anders try to find evidence of Alrik's Tranquil Solution and talked him down after the death of that poor girl.

_Ungrateful…_

Their relationship wasn't perfect. No relationship was. But Hawke thought that Anders at least trusted him. Though not a mage himself, Hawke was sympathetic. He respected his father, looked after his sister. And when he lost her to the Grey Wardens, a bit of his heart went with her. But he always felt she was better there than in the Circle. The Grey Wardens might have been a dangerous path, a terrible burden, but they were fighting for the good of the world. She would be respected, her magic a mark of pride rather than one of taboo, of shame like it would be in the Circle. Hawke was raised to respect mages, and when one took his mother's life, he refrained from laying the blame at the feet of all. Even if it would have been so easy for him to do so.

As for Anders, he'd never meant to fall in love with him. It happened gradually over the years. From the moment he met him, he'd regarded him highly. A fantastic healer, the man who saved his sister's life. The respect blossomed into romance and Hawke admitted to it. Drunkenly of course, for although Hawke's courage was as strong as his plate armor when it came to running headlong into battles, he never seemed to be able to put his feelings to words. Anders seemed to understand, but rebuffed him. And for three years, Hawke pined for him. Something Isabela and Varric never seemed to want to let go.

It all culminated three years ago, shortly after Leandra's death. Anders found him devastated, drunk, staring into the fireplace. He hadn't moved out of the room for days, surrounded by empty bottles, stinking of sweat, his clothing stained with alcohol that had missed his mouth. Thank the Maker for small mercies that Sandal continued to empty the chamber pot daily. Anders coaxed him back to living, gave him a reason for it. Cleaned him up. Kissed him.

Hawke convinced him to stay.

Of course there were many arguments after that. Whether or not the dog could continue sleeping on the bed, how it wasn't safe that Anders stayed so late in his clinic, how much alcohol was too much for Hawke to be imbibing. But the one thing they usually agreed on was the treatment of mages in Kirkwall. Hawke respected Anders' decision to keep him out of the mage underground. Templars had already been making inquiries about Hawke's friends, as Hawke was a well-known and very vocal sympathizer. 

Despite saving the nobles from the Qunari attack, Kirkwall as a whole wasn't very pleased that a Fereldan upstart dog-lord had risen so quickly in notoriety. They were grateful to the Champion for his continued protection, but their gratitude did not extend beyond tolerance. So Hawke kept to Lowtown and his own circle of friends, such as they were. If the nobles in Hightown wanted nothing to do with him, so be it. But the one person he thought he could count on, who he could trust and be trusted in return, had essentially just blackmailed him for help.

All Anders had to do was tell him why. Why did he need to get into the chantry to distract the grand cleric? What was his plan? And Hawke was still fuming from the lie Anders told to help him collect the ingredients in the first place. When Anders suggested he knew a way to separate himself from Justice, Hawke was relieved. The Fade spirit was a drain on him. Hawke was only too happy to help. But that had been an outright lie. If Anders had just told him the truth. If he would just tell him why. But the healer was so bloody stubborn.

 _"If you love me, you'll trust me._ "

He slammed the front door of his estate. It didn't make him feel any better. He saw Orana skitter from her chair and hurry down the hall toward the kitchens. Bodahn took one look at his face and pulled Sandal from the room. His servants knew his tempers. They also knew that if Anders wasn't with him when it flared, the mage was likely the cause of it. And those were the times they needed to get out of the way, and fast.

Hawke drew his sword, a sturdy one-handed blade made of silverite. With a frustrated cry, he swung it down hard into the back of a chair where it lodged in the upholstery. He stuck his booted foot against the back and wrenched it free. While it relieved some of his anger, he was still itching to hit something. There would be nothing else for it. He would go to the docks and pick a fight with the gangs. Aveline wouldn’t thank him for stirring up trouble, but if it meant knocking the teeth out of a smuggler or two, he might even find himself with some extra coin for the week.

Sheathing his sword and giving the chair a swift kick to knock it on its side, he stalked back out of the estate and traced his steps back down to Lowtown.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders winced as the door slammed shut. He took several breaths to calm himself, feeling the familiar sparks of electricity between his fingertips. He had half a mind to chase after Hawke, to shout at him. His heart was racing, and he lifted a hand to massage his chest, a clenching pain in his soul. It was getting more and more difficult now to control Justice. The impulses he had that came from the spirit were growing stronger every day and he found himself wanting to _act_ , to do _something_. 

So he lied to Hawke.

He hadn't wanted to, but there was no way of telling how Hawke would have responded to the truth. He agreed readily to collect the ingredients, was so helpful that Anders felt horribly guilty. And when Hawke asked if the ingredients were really for a potion to separate himself from Justice, Anders couldn't bear to lie to him anymore. He'd been so desperate for Hawke's help. There was no one else he could trust, and there was no else he could ask. Why couldn't Hawke understand that?

Frustrated, he started to clean, stripping beds and tossing out the garbage. He'd just settled down, resigned to spending the night here instead of the estate when the clinic door creaked open. Hawke, perhaps? Come back to apologize and talk? He peered around the partition.

"Serah?"

Not Hawke. He pushed his disappointment away and stood, taking up his staff. A girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, dressed in rags and barefoot, her face dirty and hair stringy, looked relieved to see him.

"What is it?" he asked gently. She looked like a scared rabbit ready to dart.

"My mother, serah. Please. We need help. We were told to find the healer here."

Maker, he didn't need this right now. He should be heading up to Hightown to talk to Hawke. But no, the man was likely volatile still and while Hawke never turned that temper fully on him, would never hurt him, Anders wasn't sure he could handle a continuation of their fight.

"What's wrong?"

"She has a fever and she's delirious."

Anders opened his cabinet, taking up a few herbs before gesturing her out. He extinguished the lanterns and locked the doors behind him. Had he not been so distracted from his argument with Hawke, he might've noticed the little smile that quirked on the girl's lips. Knowing that a fever in the middle of summer was likely more dire than if it had been the dead of winter, Anders followed her quickly through the winding paths of Darktown. Poison, perhaps? Or worse.

He knew most of the streets in the Undercity, had to in order to make quick getaways from the templars. But the girl was leading him further down and away from his clinic than he'd been before. He hoped he'd be able to get bearings on his way back, or at least find a path to Lowtown where the roads were actually marked.

A stirring in his breast alerted him to something not quite right as he turned the last corner. He stopped, looked at the girl. She smirked, then ran off quickly, scurrying up a ladder and disappearing into the shadows. Anders turned on his heel. His blood ran cold. Four templars emerged from the side alleys. He heard their plate armor now. Why hadn't heard it before? He turned again quickly to find another path, taking his staff in hand.

"Mage."

The voice wasn't familiar, but the tone. It brought him back to Ferelden immediately, running from the templars there. Escaping the tower only to be dragged back again and again. He wouldn't be taken this time. He brought the end of his staff down against the rocky street, sending a wave of ice toward his would-be captors. But they were ready. This wasn't some one-off mage hunt. He'd been set up. He felt the sudden disconnect from his magic as sharply as someone chopping a limb from his body. The pain in his chest increased, the familiar weight seemingly disappearing for the moment.

One of them approached and he turned quickly, bringing his staff around to use as a club. The templar wasn't expecting it, catching a blow on his helmet that sent him reeling. It was enough to stun him and shock the others, and Anders was off and running blindly, the metal clank of plate mail behind him as they followed. He turned down an unfamiliar alley and too late he realized that the opposite end was blocked by a cave in. A man covered in rags sat against the wall. He looked up at Anders, then behind him at the templars.

"You're cornered now, mage. Come with us willingly or not. Makes no difference."

Anders turned to face his attackers. With or without his magic, he wouldn't go without a fight. He never had before. "Four on one, seems normal for the templars. You always were a bunch of cowards," he sneered.

He blocked the first two blows, but the third cast a smite which sent both him and the tramp into the rocks behind them. He lost hold of his staff and felt the breath ripped from his lungs and gasped for air, holding up a hand in weak defense as one of them descended upon him. His arm broke with the blow from the templar's metal bracer. Pain blossomed from his forearm down his wrist and up to his neck and he cried out, cradling it to his chest. Another blow from the pommel of the sword and he fell, his vision swimming as a trickle of blood slid from his temple to his cheek.

"Keep your mouth shut," one of the templars snapped to the tramp, who all but wedged himself into the corner.

Anders felt a wave of nausea wash over him as he was hauled to his feet and dragged away. He tried to struggle, but his vision was blurry, tunneling, and he blacked out momentarily. When next he opened his eyes, there was a very bright light above him, and the silhouette of a man he didn't recognize.

"Put him in a cell. We'll see what it takes to break him."

He was thrown onto cold concrete floor, a grunt of pain escaping his lips. Someone laughed as the cell door shut and the lock clicked. He crawled to the musty, stained pallet and curled up, trying to coax his magic back to channel enough healing energy. The pain in his arm subsided, but his head throbbed and he allowed the darkness to claim him.


	3. Chapter 3

Arms crossed, Hawke leaned against the far wall of Aveline's office, watching her pace. He'd been woken by one of her messengers, told it was urgent, and crawled out of bed with a horrible hangover and scabs on his knuckles that would likely turn to scars. He hadn't actually managed to kill any smugglers, but the fight was rough and he still sported a black eye. If Anders had been by after Hawke dragged himself out of the Lowtown bars to collapse into bed, he hadn't bothered healing him or taking the edge off the drunkenness. But the messenger said it was urgent so he dressed without putting his armor on and took up just his sword and scabbard. Standing in her office now without armor and shield, he felt naked.

Finally she looked up, fists on her desk as she faced him, glaring. "Hawke."

"If you're going to keep up the dramatics," he said, lifting a hand to cover a yawn, "you could've at least let me get another few minutes of sleep until you were done. I could've guessed you're upset from the face you're making."

"This is serious."

"So get to the point then," Hawke suggested. "You got me out of bed to yell at me. I don't see why you couldn't have come yourself. We could've had this conversation in my bedroom."

Wrong thing to say. Her mouth tightened into a thin line and the wood of her desk splintered slightly as she pounded a fist into the top.

"You know," Hawke said, unable to keep his mouth shut, "if you got Donnic to fuck you a bit harder, you might not be so cranky."

He ducked the paperweight she threw at his head. It thudded against the wall and left a dent.

"Easy!" he growled, his head throbbing from the hangover the ale left him with. Maker, why did he have to go for the cheap stuff?

"I walked into my office this morning to find these," she snapped, taking up a pile of papers. "Complaints from seven dockworkers citing a man in full plate harassing them. I went down myself to look, there's blood everywhere."

Hawke shrugged. "It's the docks. There's always blood. There's still stains from the Qunari attack years ago, you'll never get that out of the stone."

"I could've turned a blind eye if they were smugglers, Hawke, but they were honest workers unloading midnight shipments."

"Anyone could've made that mistake," he said innocently.

"You left three with broken limbs and another with a black eye!"

"Who's to say it was me anyway?" He didn't think anyone would've recognized him. It was dark.

He wasn't sure how she was able to glare any harder, and wondered if Donnic got off on her being perpetually pissed off.

"Descriptions match you, Hawke. Eyewitnesses put you there. You can't deny it."

"I can," Hawke said, shrugging again. "But I guess I won't. Fine. What do you want me to do? Issue a formal apology? Go down and buy them a round?"

"I'm sick of your devil-may-care attitude. You actually enjoy making my job harder, don't you?"

He looked up at the ceiling, sighing. "Yes, that's me. That's exactly what I do. I succeed in life just to make you miserable."

"Can the sarcasm," she growled.

"Look," he said, running a hand back through his hair, "it was a bad night, what do you want me to tell you?"

Aveline glanced over as the door opened. A guardsman Hawke didn't recognize stepped inside. He looked like a fresh recruit, hair neatly cropped, a style favored by most of the younger ones.

"You wanted to see me, Captain?"

"Yes. I'm placing Messere Hawke under arrest for drunk and disorderly conduct and assault. Take him to the cells."

"What?!" Hawke demanded, stepping forward, fists clenched.

"And take his weapon."

"You can't do this, Aveline!" Hawke said, advancing toward her. The guard grabbed his arm and he wrenched away. "You _don't_ want to do that, junior," he said, glaring at the boy.

The guard hesitated, then looked from Hawke to Aveline. Deciding perhaps that his superior standing there in full plate was more intimidating than the Champion with his bedhead and dark circles under his eyes, the guard took his arm again.

"Three days, Hawke. Be glad it's not more."

"I'm not even drunk now! You can't do this!" he said again.

"I can and I am," she replied coolly, straightening up, crossing her arms.

Hawke wrenched his arm away from the guard again and unbuckled his sword belt. "Ever since you took office, your ego's blown completely out of proportion." He tossed the belt down. "Make sure that gets back to my estate." The unspoken _or else_ hung in the air.

They glared at each other a moment longer before Aveline nodded to the guardsman.

"Touch my arm and I'll rip yours off," Hawke said, dangerously quiet as he stared at the boy, daring him to call his bluff.

"Uh… th-this way, Messere Hawke," he squeaked, and hurried out.

Hawke turned to give Aveline one last glare before he followed the guard. Several others looked away quickly as they passed. Apparently they'd been listening in, and the whispers that followed him were hidden behind hands. The gossip would spread like wildfire and soon everyone in Hightown would know by lunch, Lowtown by supper. He only hoped they would get exaggerated. If he got out, he would confirm anything that involved him punching Aveline in the face and how it took four men to pull him off her and that's why he was arrested.

The cells were befittingly under the Keep, a place Hawke had never ventured to before, never needed to. Most were empty, though a few held a handful or so of actual smugglers and raiders. Hawke recognized a man he'd worked with before from the Coterie.

"Hey Lucien," Hawke said with a nod.

"Hawke?" the man replied, confused. He moved to the bars. "What do they got you in fer?"

Hawke slowed in his walking, the guardsman hesitating, looking as if he wanted to order Hawke to keep moving.

"Drunk and disorderly the day after. I'd appreciate it if you talked the story up a bit. Got a reputation to maintain."

Lucien laughed. "No shit. Well I'll tell my boys. I'm out this afternoon."

"Hey," Hawke said, turning to walk backward now so as not to upset his jailor. "Get a word to Varric? Don't want the gang to get worried when I don't show up."

"You got it, Hawke. Take it easy. Don't eat the stew!"

Hawke chuckled and turned, walking the rest of the length of the hall to where the guardsman gestured. He opened the cell door. A high window let in sunlight, and Hawke peered out. He saw the rest of the city, far down below him. Not underground then, just under the Keep. The only things in the cell were a very uncomfortable looking bed and a metal toilet.

"Dwarven plumbing? And a view?" Hawke asked. "Very impressive. I must have the executive suite of cells." He walked in and sat down. "I'd like a book to pass the time."

"Uh… we'll see what we can do, messere," the guardsman said, obviously confused by the request. He shut the door, locked it, and pulled on it to test it. "Anything else?"

Hawke shrugged. "Harmonica?"

"Um."

"That was a joke, junior."

"Oh."

Hawke sighed and took pity. "Go on. I'll be good. Maker's honest."

Confused, but thankful to get out of there, the guardsman took off. Hawke lay back on the bed, fingers laced behind his head. At least he could get a few more hours' sleep and hopefully relieve his hangover.


	4. Chapter 4

Anders jerked awake, icy water hitting him like a battering ram. He scrambled back, away from the bars as the cell door was opened, creaking on its rusty hinges. It was instinct that forced him into fear, remembering the year he'd spent in solitary in Kinloch Hold. Had he not been previously conditioned, he might have reacted with a fireball before the smite hit him. His head cracked against the stone wall and he saw stars momentarily, eyes closed against the pain.

"Get him on his feet."

His head ached and he felt the dried blood on his face. His arm, while sore, was no longer broken. When he came to consciousness earlier, the pain forcing him awake, he managed to heal himself before passing out again. A fresh wave of nausea swept over him as someone stepped in and grabbed him under the arm, yanking him to his feet. He stumbled against him, smelling sweat and armor polish. It was the same brand that Hawke used, and that forced him to focus.

Dragged from his cell, he got his bearings. He was under the Gallows. He'd been there twice, aiding mages in their escape. It wasn't a place you wanted to go voluntarily, and to go there against your will meant certain death. Or worse. There was a brief moment of panic, but none of the three Templars in front of him held a sunburst brand. The threat of Tranquility still remained.

"What do you want?" he demanded, his voice hoarse, throat dry.

The leader, a blond man with a bad beard more like unkempt mutton chops, let out a rasping laugh. "Want? We want what any Maker-fearing man wants. To see you robes in your proper place."

Anders felt a spark of remembrance. "Karras."

Karras sneered. "Yes. So you remember me. I've been waiting for this for a long time. You and your fool friends thought you pulled one over on us, didn't you? Well we recovered the Starkhaven apostates and now you're going to pay for your insolence."

His head throbbed. "You… cornered me so you can get revenge for something that happened what… five? Six years ago?" It was absurd. 

"It's more than that, mage," Karras snapped. "You're an apostate. Can't have you running loose."

"Your Knight-Commander doesn't care. She needs the Champion in her pocket and –"

Karras backhanded him. It wasn't hard enough to break his jaw, but he tasted blood as his head snapped to the side. The Templar holding him pulled him upright. Anders reached up and dabbed at his lip, tongue flicking out instinctively.

"Your Champion was arrested early this morning. So don't get any ideas about a heroic rescue. You're ours now." He looked to the other two. "Strip him and get him in the stocks. We'll need to loosen him up a bit before the real fun."

"Wait!" Anders tried not to panic. He always knew there was a possibility of getting caught, of Templars dragging him to the Gallows. But Meredith knew him, knew his name. He was there the night Hawke fought the Arishok. He was known as a friend of the Champion, and thought – perhaps foolishly – that it would be enough for now to keep him safe.

"No," Karras said, smirking.

Anders was dragged forward, kicking and struggling against the strong hands that pulled him away from his cell.

"Wait," Karras ordered.

Anders had a brief second of hope that Karras had changed his mind. That maybe he'd bring Anders up to be presented to the knight-captain. He'd be imprisoned in the Gallows, but he could escape the Circle. He'd done it before. But that hope was crushed as a burlap sack was pulled over his head, the ties closing around his neck. It stank of animal feed and hay, and he gagged on the taste.

"Go."

He couldn't see anything, just light and dark as they dragged him up a set of stairs and around a corner. The Gallows were designed as a slave prison, difficult to navigate under the best of circumstances. Any slaves wanting to escape would have to find their way out before braving the bay and the Waking Sea. A door opened and he was shoved inside. He stumbled but quickly gained his balance, reaching up and yanking the sack off his head. The room he was in looked like storage, crates and sacks piled up, no windows to speak of. The room was dimly lit from a few candles on the walls. In the middle, a set of wooden stocks, the top flipped opened and waiting.

The two Templars moved into the room, shutting the door behind them. Anders caught a glimpse of the hall before it shut, but saw nothing but grey stone. He backed up away from the advancing templars, reaching behind him for anything he could use to defend himself. His hand closed around a wooden stick, perhaps a broken table leg. One of them laughed. Anders held it out in front of him.

"Get his hands. Looks like he wants to do this the hard way," one of them jeered, removing a knife from his belt.

Anders swung at one viciously, the wood glancing off a leather pauldron. The second was caught mid-swing and the templar wrenched it from his grasp. Anders felt the burn on his hands and the sting of splinters. He took another step back and nearly tripped over a box. Metal-clad hands grabbed his wrists and yanked him forward, throwing him face-first to the ground. They were on him in seconds, pinning him down, pulling at his coat, his threadbare shirt.

"NO! STOP!"

But he knew they wouldn't. They never did. He felt the pain in his scalp as one of them grabbed his hair, yanking him back, and then slammed his head down into the stone floor. His nose broke and he cried out, blood dripping from his nostrils into his open mouth. There was a rush of cool air against his skin as the fabric of his shirt was ripped from his arms. One of them knelt on his wrists, leaning forward to hold his shoulders in place. Anders tried to lift his head, to slam it into the man's stomach.

"He looks like he wants to suck your cock."

A cruel laugh. "Probably. Maybe we'll make him beg for it later. Karras wants him whipped first."

"Right, right."

His boots were unlaced and Anders struggled, metal gauntlets digging into his shoulders, bruising him.

"Hey ain't you fucked that pretty one yet? The one with the brown curly hair?"

"Twice yesterday but she's been hanging around that big guy. The one what's all friendly with the knight-captain. I don't want to get on his bad side."

Anders winced as his pants and smalls were yanked down over his hips, and tried to spread his legs to stop them from going further. Panic was starting to set in now. This was actually going to happen. Memories flooded his mind, all the time in the Circle in Ferelden, being dragged back by hunters who were none too gentle. Receiving kicks to the head for a wakeup call. The cold darkness of solitary. His food delivered on a plate that was tipped over on purpose or defiled in some way before he could even get a chance to taste the meager meal.

"Look at the marks on 'im," one of them said, as Anders was relieved of his pants and smalls. "Get 'im up."

"Someone must've had their fun with him long before we got to him."

They dragged him to his feet and shoved him bent double into the stocks. The wooden top came down, lock latching in place, and Anders felt his neck and wrists start to itch.

_Magebane._

They'd coated the damn thing with poison to keep him from using his magic. Just how long did they plan to keep him there?

"Karras'll be back for you later, mage."

"Sweet dreams."

They blew the candles out and left.

Anders was locked in the darkness, drained of mana, and alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke swore the meat on his plate was moving. He also wasn't entirely sure it was meat. Thick and bumpy and covered in gravy that was much too sweet for his tastes. He poked at it with his fork a few times. 'Mincemeat' they called it. Mincemeat, gravy, some type of green vegetable he couldn't identify and lumpy greyish mashed potatoes. So this was dinner in the can. The pokey. The slammer. The Big House. And other assorted euphemisms.

"They should call it 'the waste of my time'," Hawke muttered to himself.

He set the tray on the floor and flopped back down onto the mattress. An entire day spent reading the three battered books his new friend Markus had gotten him. No harmonica though, but Hawke wasn't too put out by that. The guardsman wasn't such a bad kid after all. When he brought Hawke the books, they spoke a little about why he joined up.

_"My pa died two years ago and I needed to get off the streets. I don't mind begging, but I'm able-bodied enough to make some use of myself."_

Donnic found him working the docks, getting whipped by some harbormaster who likely was suffering from a case of small penis syndrome. Normally the Guard wouldn't involve itself in such a scuffle, but Donnic took his patrol very seriously.

_"Donnic said I reminded him of his little brother. We talked and he vouched for me. I started training a few weeks after that, and here I am."_

Hawke was reminded of his brother as well. Well, when Carver was much, much younger and hadn't hated him so much. He rolled over, facing the wall, looking at the cracks in the stone. Maker, he hadn't thought about Carver since their mother died. Keeping himself productive, running errands, taking odd jobs, that kept his mind occupied and off the horrors of his past. He recalled the ogre, huge and lumbering and damned strong as it snatched Carver from the ground and tossed him around like a rag doll. The crunch of his brother's back as the thing snapped his spine and threw him away, a child tossing a broken toy aside in favor of more entertaining things.

He'd slit its belly open before shoving his sword into its eye. But even that wasn't enough to bring Carver back. Hawke was always bad with words, always making an off-color joke when he should keep his mouth shut. Carver had died like a hero, and he said as much, hoping to calm his mother.

_"I don't want a hero, I want my son!"_

And he took that blame that his mother flung at him, words like poisoned daggers piercing the carefully layered armor he'd built up around his emotions. That wall he'd started to construct one brick at a time, cementing it carefully with his father's death. He continued to add to it, leaving Carver behind in that barren wasteland next to Aveline's husband. Wesley… he could still feel the templar's blood on his hands, having pushed the knife through his heart himself. A fact Aveline would never let him forget, nor ever forgive him for.

Nearly losing Bethany, the gratitude he felt when Anders suggested the Grey Wardens as a solution. He'd been nearly inconsolable for months, waiting to hear from her. His mother mourned the loss of another child even before they'd received word. Hawke fought tooth and nail, demanding to see the viscount in order to petition to get the Amell estate back. Killing slavers and dragging their worthless carcasses to sea had afforded a much needed distraction. And on the day that they moved in, they finally learned of Bethany's survival. He'd expected happiness, a celebration.

_"It's a pity Bethany will never see the estate. She would've loved the garden."_

Even if Leandra hadn't meant it as an insult, Hawke took it personally. Another failure. He turned to drink. And his friends. And Anders. He'd been surprised and pleased with him, knowing that not all apostates who fled the Circle were like his father. Some of the ones they'd come across in Ferelden were downright nasty, turning against even their own kind, paranoid and angry at the world. He found Anders paranoid and angry, but there was so much pain underneath. He'd built his own wall, and Hawke was immediately drawn to him, wanted to help him. Until Anders told him in no uncertain terms that he was a big boy and could take care of himself.

So Hawke stopped pestering him to eat more. To come relax with them in the Hanged Man. To stop working so hard. Instead, he took a page from Anders' book and worked harder. Took more Chanter's Board assignments, let Aveline boss him around on any extra work she needed done. And he tried not to think about Anders. But the healer wouldn't leave his mind. So Hawke pressed, flirting awkwardly, not knowing how woo another man. And after Leandra died, after the last of his family was lost to him, Anders filled the void.

"Damn, Hawke."

Hawke looked up. He'd been so lost in his own mind, he'd almost forgotten he was lying on an uncomfortably thin mattress in a six-by-eight room. Standing just beyond the bars was Varric, arms crossed, looking in at him.

"Varric? What are you doing here?" he asked, getting up and moving to the bars.

"Visiting hours. Well," he said modestly, "I pulled a few strings so I could get in to see you. Word broke just an hour ago of your incarceration."

"Yeah?" Hawke asked, grinning. "What are they saying?"

"Everything from kicking puppies to murdering the knight-commander."

"What? I would never kick a puppy!"

Varric chuckled. "So why are you really in here?"

"Aveline got tired of cleaning up my messes." Hawke shrugged, leaning forward, wrapping an arm around a bar. He pressed his face between them, feeling the cool metal against his cheeks. "Drunk and disorderly. I might have beaten on a few smugglers that weren't smugglers."

Varric winced. "Kill anyone?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Just roughed them up. Got a black eye for my troubles too. See?" He pointed.

"That I do. Looks good on you though. Fits the dashing hero persona you got going."

Hawke grinned. "You always know how to cheer me up. This is why you're my favorite dwarf."

"I'm your only dwarf."

"Bodahn counts."

"But he wouldn't go along with half your harebrained schemes," Varric pointed out.

"True enough."

"So," Varric said, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. "What had you down on the docks drunk in the first place?"

Hawke shrugged miserably. "Fight with Anders."

"Ah, guess that would explain why I haven't seen Blondie all morning. Wasn't in his clinic."

"Probably licking his wounds somewhere," Hawke said, then frowned. "That was… don't tell him I said that. Maker, I'm an asshole sometimes."

He did love Anders. More than he could put into words. But sometimes the man drove him absolutely insane, what with his desire to incite a mage rebellion. Hawke supported him, but sometimes he just wanted to fuck and cuddle and sleep, not spend hours late into the night and early morning listening to him rant about some insult Fenris or Sebastian had thrown at him. Hawke did his best to keep them all separate, but Anders was an invaluable part of their group. And after they spent their first night together awkwardly confessing their feelings, Hawke wanted to keep him close. If Anders was close, Hawke could protect him. He could protect him so Anders didn't end up like Malcolm and Carver and Leandra.

"Yes you are," Varric agreed. "What do you want me to tell him if I see him?"

Hawke sighed. "Try to get me some sympathy points. Tell him how miserable I am in prison. And that I miss him. And I want to see him soon. And I'm really sorry for our fight."

"Andraste's tits, Hawke," Varric said, shaking his head. "If I didn't regularly see you cut down dragons and giant spiders, I'd assume you had a twat between those firm thighs of yours."

"You're just jealous cause you can't get between these firm thighs to find out for sure," Hawke shot back.

Varric raised an eyebrow. "I'm a one-woman dwarf, Hawke. And Blondie would set me on fire."

"Speaking of, I'm surprised they let you bring Bianca in here."

Varric reached back and patted his crossbow fondly. "As if I'd let those barbarians at the door touch this beauty."

"Time's up, dwarf," someone Hawke couldn't see said from down the hall.

"Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on." Varric looked back to Hawke. "Look, it's only two more days. Then we'll get back on schedule."

"Thanks, Varric."

"Don't drop the soap."

"I hope all your chest hair falls out!" Hawke called as Varric turned down the hall.

Varric didn't dignify it with a response, but Hawke felt better for the visit. Resigned, he picked up his tray, poked at the mystery meat, and reluctantly began to eat.


	6. Chapter 6

_"And then there was the time that I swam across the lake. No, really. I did. Of course they canceled outdoor activities after that, but you should've seen their faces!"_

"He's smiling."

"Hit him harder."

The horsewhip came down again across his back, and his knees buckled. His entire body ached from his head to his feet. The stone was cold under his soles, the open door letting in a draft. They'd relit the candles for their session. Karras returned, but he wasn't holding the whip. Anders didn't know the names of the others, but he would remember their faces. He remembered the face of every templar who ever touched him, who ever took a whip or a belt or a paddle to his back or his legs. He remembered the ones that hunted him down and returned him again and again to his suffering.

He went somewhere in his mind when his lash count reached fifteen. He'd taken more in a single session before. Kirkwall templars might be more numerous, but they hit like little girls. Or maybe it was just that he was used to the physical beatings. He hadn't truly broken until solitary, until they threw him in a pit and left him to rot. His jailors never spoke to him. There were beatings in solitary, every so often two would come in, strip him, string him up and flog him. His mana was never taken away. He always had his magic, could always heal himself after. But his mind never quite recovered. His claustrophobia was a fear he constantly revisited. He would never get out of that cell in Kinloch.

_"You're such a good friend, Mr. Wiggums. I don't know why you keep coming down here. I don't have anything for you. Oh well. At least you keep the rats away when I sleep."_

"He ain't even screaming no more."

"Perhaps the mage needs a firmer hand."

Anders was just able to turn his head to see Karras move from his spot near the doorway. Something cool dripped over the wounds in his back and for a second he thought they were healing him up. Then the stinging started. Little pinpricks at first, then a white-hot burning over the crisscrossing wounds. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his fists so tightly his fingernails nearly broke the skin of his palms. Before he could stop himself, he started to scream.

"STOP! STOP IT, OH MAKER PLEASE STOP!"

Someone laughed. He tried to pull at his restraints, shifting the heavy wooden stocks an inch, the board digging into his neck and wrists as he twisted and writhed against the oil in his wounds. Magebane? Deathroot? He didn't know, he didn't care. It hurt, it burned. It felt like a thousand fire ants had burrowed their way into his back and started biting him over and over. The whip came down again, the oil seeping into the fresh wound. He cried again for it to stop, but they were relentless.

It felt like an hour, two hours, more. He shifted from foot to foot, bringing a leg up to bend at the knee, to flex his ankle, crying now because Maker it hurt so bad, he just wanted to get away from the agony in his back. Suddenly the top of the stocks were lifted. He crumpled to the ground, legs sore, thighs and knees aching, and immediately rolled to his back. The wounds screamed in protest, but the cool stone took away some of the burning. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ignore the pain, trying scratch out the poison. The itch was driving him mad. Four shadows looked down at him.

"Please," he said, though he knew it would fall on deaf ears.

"Get him up and take him to the drink." Karras crouched down to look him in the eye. "A little reprieve before the next round of fun." He smirked and stood, leaving Anders with the other three.

"Wait," one of them said.

Anders heard the rustling of cloth, the clanking of a gauntlet against another piece of metal. He looked over. One of the templars was pulling out his cock.

_So they're going to do it now then._

He'd been touched before by templars in the Ferelden Circle. A child of twelve, a beautiful foreign boy with soft blond hair and a fiery temper. He was a challenge to them. But Gregoir had been somewhat vigilant and Irving, though he despised the fool, took as firm a hand with the templars as he did with his mages. There were always rumors, but an inappropriate touch to his backside or a squeeze on his thigh were nothing compared to what he'd heard could happen. The worst of it for him was getting caught with another apprentice. Some templars like the older enchanters would shoo you off to bed, reprimand you, maybe make you do canticle recitations or lines. The creepy templars would watch. They knew they couldn't touch or at least they didn't want to chance getting caught. So they would watch and leer and force you to continue or threaten to tell the enchanters.

Because of that, Anders had gotten very good at learning how not to get caught.

He tried to prepare himself mentally for what was about to happen, whether they were going to take his ass or his mouth, he didn't know.

"Karras said not to touch 'im yet."

"I ain't gonna touch 'im, am I?" said the one with his cock out.

He started to stroke, and Anders rolled to his side to get away. A booted foot kicked him in the head and he groaned in pain.

"Pin 'im," ordered the one above him.

His arms were stretched out and they stepped on his hands. The pressure hurt, but nothing to the agony of his back. He took several gasping breaths, looking up at one, then the other, and the third.

"Open your mouth, mage."

Anders clamped his lips shut and closed his eyes. He didn't struggle. It was pointless to do so. The sound of metal clanking above him grew louder and the templar knelt, straddling him. A gauntleted hand gripped his chin, forcing his mouth open and he whimpered as the templar came on his face. He felt it warm in his hair, over his eye, across his lips. He gagged on the salty tang, coughing as they released him. They were laughing as they let him up. Immediately he wiped at his face, succeeding in only smearing the come and the blood from his broken nose.

The sound of plate and cloth shifting and he was dragged to his feet. The burlap sack was shoved over his head once again.

They forced him into walk, wrenching his arms up so that his shoulders ached. Slowly he felt his magic trickle back to him. Not enough to defend himself or to attack. He could save his mana, conserve it, and wait until he could hit them with something. But no, the pain in his back was too great. He pushed what little energy he had to relieve the itch and heal the wounds. It was cold in the halls, his clothing left behind. His toes stubbed on the stone and he stumbled.

"Oi, mage, walk straight."

Anders refused to respond.

A door opened and he was marched inside. He was left with one holding his arm while the other two moved something heavy and wooden. They pushed him forward. He barked his shin against something hard and solid, and nearly fell forward.

"Step up and get in."

Unable to see with the bag over his head, Anders did as he was told as carefully as he could. He jerked his foot back when it hit water.

"What-"

"I said, 'get in!'"

There was a sharp blow to the back of his shoulders and Anders lost his balance, falling face first into the water. He floundered, splashing, trying to get to his feet, ignoring the sounds of laughter. Someone ripped the bag from his face and he coughed. The room was dark, only a candle carried by one of the templars lit the immediate area.

A bath?

Why would they give him a bath?

"Down you go, mage."

One of them pushed him down to sit, the water nearly reaching his neck. The bath was stone, sunken into the floor. The other two templars began to pull the lid over top of him, and with a sudden nasty realization, Anders understood.

"NO! NO WAIT! Whip me! Beat me! I don't care, please! Do whatever you want!"

He fought against the hand holding him down and earned himself another smite for his trouble. He slipped and went under and when he emerged, gasping for air, the lid was shut and the sound of laughter receded. A door shut faintly, and Anders was alone again. He tried not to panic, tried not to think of the darkness that surrounded him. The water sloshed quietly, he could feel the waves from his flailing.

"It's all right," he whispered to himself, his voice echoing around the chamber.

He shifted to his knees, reaching up with both hands. The lid wouldn't budge. Maybe once his mana returned he could mind blast it away. Yes. He would have to wait. He could wait. He could do this.

"You can do this," he muttered.

He took several deep breaths, settling down to sit, pulling his knees up, arms around his legs. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, but there was nothing to see. The water slowly settled, just the sound of dripping now as beads fell from his hair.

_Plunk. Plunk._

The warmth of his healing magic as his nose knitted. The wounds on his back closing ever so slowly, the itch gone now. Just aches left.

He hummed quietly, not realizing he'd started to rock slowly back and forth, waiting for more mana. Waiting until he could escape.


	7. Chapter 7

He dreamt of Ferelden.

It had been a long time since he thought of his life in Lothering, in other parts of the muddy, backwater country that stank of wet dog and manure. But as Hawke opened his eyes slowly, the first rays of light filtering through the bars, he felt nostalgic for his old home. He wanted to go back, to take Anders with him and visit all the little hills and fields and orchards he remembered. But Anders would never agree to that. He still had business in Kirkwall, even if he wouldn't tell Hawke what that business was. Maybe after, they could find a place to go. A small farm where they could be left alone in peace. Perhaps find a way to raise a family.

Hawke smiled into the thin, ratty pillow, closing his eyes again. He'd never thought about wanting children before, and when he realized how deeply he'd fallen in love with Anders, he thought any hope of that was gone. But Anders was so good with the kids in Darktown. He treated their wounds, made them laugh. And when Hawke told him what a good father he'd make, Anders just smiled sadly.

_"I never let myself hope. I'm a mage, Hawke. There's never an opportunity for someone like me to have a child."_

_"My father had three."_

_"Regardless, neither of us have the proper equipment."_

_"We could adopt."_

They let the conversation end there, but it was something that lingered in the back of his mind. Another discussion for another time. Maybe when they were older and Hawke didn't have the whole of the city at his back, demanding his attention. He stretched, his legs sticking out over the end of the cot. It was clearly made for someone with a smaller frame. Rolling over, he staggered to the toilet and did his business, still impressed with dwarven plumbing. He'd have to speak to Bodahn about upgrading the estate fully. No more dragging buckets of water up to have a bath. Anders would appreciate it.

"Messere Hawke?"

Hawke tied up his pants and turned, smiling at Markus who held a food tray and a cup of steaming coffee. He walked to the bars and took the tray through the slit in the middle and thanked him.

"Mm. That's good," he muttered, sipping the strong brew.

Markus smiled modestly. "How are you holding up? I got you another book."

Hawke put the tray on the bed before taking the book that Markus poked through the bars. "'The Antivan Snake.' Markus," he said, with a cheeky grin, "did you bring me pornography?"

"What?!"

Maker, the kid could blush.

"N-no! It's about a spy who infiltrates the Orlesian empire!"

"I'm messing with you, junior."

"Oh."

Hawke tossed the book on the pile with the rest before leaning against the wall of his cell. "You know. If you ever get tired of good old honest and boring guard… stuff," he said, waving his mug idly, "I can always put you to work."

"Doing what?"

He didn't immediately brush it off. That was good. Hawke took another long sip of coffee before he answered. "Little of this, little of that. I run errands, Chanter's Board requests, fetching, retrieving. Used to be muscle for hire. Still do that sometimes but the pay isn't as good. Varric's got fingers in all sorts of business."

"I… I don't know. It sounds illegal."

Hawke shrugged. "If you don't mind the occasional stint in jail," he said, glancing around.

Markus chuckled. "I guess, messere."

"Call me Hawke."

Markus hesitated. "Hawke."

"There we go. We're friends now."

The declaration seemed to both unnerve and excite the boy. "I'll think about it. This is a good job. Benefits-"

"I do not care about some petty charge."

"Huh," Hawke said nonchalantly, though Markus had gone white as a sheet. He knew that voice. "Meredith's up early."

"Knight-Commander, with all due respect-"

Markus got quickly out of the way. Hawke watched, amused as Knight-Commander Meredith stepped into view. She was glaring, though for once that anger wasn't directed at him. He could just see Aveline beyond the cell door.

"Good morning, Knight-Commander," Hawke said cheerfully. "So nice of you to come visit. I didn't think we were such good friends that you'd make the trip from your high horse to mingle with us common folk."

Her eyes narrowed, and Hawke sipped his coffee to cover a smirk.

"I'm here to end your incarceration," she said simply, then looked to Markus. "You hold his key?"

Poor Markus looked like he was going to wet himself. 

"Y-yes, Knight-Commander."

"Good. Unlock it."

Markus looked from Meredith to Aveline, whose face was bright red. Meredith technically outranked her. She was the true power in Kirkwall, a fact that irked many but none could do a thing about. Until the grand cleric shifted her position or they received word from Val Royeaux, or the nobles put forth a name for viscount, Meredith would remain in charge. Hawke had a terse conversation with Seneschal Bran in which he jokingly offered to take up the position. Bran had responded with outrage, and though it was only said in jest, Hawke got the message. No Fereldan dog-lords in the viscount's office, no matter how many Qunari uprisings they stopped.

Aveline finally nodded and Markus fumbled at his belt for the keys. Hawke finished his coffee, handed the empty mug to Markus, thanking him as he stepped out. The door shut, and there was a very awkward pause.

"Well, think I'll go home then."

Meredith sneered. "When you didn't respond to my summons, I got wind of what happened. A jail cell is no place for the Champion of Kirkwall."

_Not unless you're the one clapping me in those irons,_ Hawke thought, but was at least smart enough not to say. "You know I'm only too happy to be of service, Knight-Commander," he said instead. "But as I've been all day and night in a cell, I'd like to go home first to freshen up. I'd hate to offend you with the stench of prison clinging to my fine clothing."

"You're forgetting I spend my days in a barracks, Champion."

"I'm sure any barracks run by you smells fresh as a daisy."

"I'm not amused," she said flatly.

But he was. Hawke bit his tongue though. In truth, he was more amused by Aveline's glare than anything. "By your leave, Knight-Commander. I'll be at the Gallows within the hour for whatever task Kirkwall needs me for next."

Meredith considered this, then nodded. "Very well, Champion. I will see you in my office. One hour. Do not be late or I will reconsider your proverbial stay of execution."

She turned on her heel, not bothering to acknowledge Aveline or Markus as she left.

"She's in a good mood. I didn't count any insults, veiled or not," Hawke said airily. "Well. Markus, it's been a pleasure."

"You too, Hawke. I-I mean," he faltered, as Aveline turned her glare on him. "Um."

Hawke laughed, patting his shoulder. "Come by the Hanged Man some time for drinks. I'll have Varric put you on his tab. Captain," he said, nodding to Aveline as he walked away, trying not to whistle. That would be rubbing salt into the wound after all.

As his estate was mere feet from the bottom steps of the Keep, Hawke's trip home was uneventful. Bodahn and Sandal were happy to see him, and his mabari bounced eagerly around his heels. Orana offered to make him breakfast which he declined. Hungry though he was, he didn't want to keep Meredith waiting. Instead, he cleaned up and changed his clothing, getting into his armor. His sword was laid out on his desk, shield on the armor stand where he'd left it. It felt good to have both on his back again.

"Any correspondence from Anders?" he asked Bodahn, though he didn't expect it, and the dwarf confirmed his suspicions. "Hn. Must be angry with me still. I'll be back in a few hours."

He thought about swinging by the clinic on his way to the docks, but decided to give Anders a bit more time to himself. Maybe he could do something nice for him to show him he was sorry for their fight, though it had been mostly Anders' fault. No, he had to push that annoyance away. Placing blame and holding grudges wouldn't get them through this. So instead he trudged through Lowtown, ignoring also the call of the Hanged Man as he passed, jogging down the steps to the docks.

Whatever Meredith needed him for, it must've been important. Otherwise, he figured, she would've left him to rot in the cell for another day.


	8. Chapter 8

"Anders."

Anders startled, the water around him sloshing in his panic. He'd had his eyes closed, reciting ingredients for potions and poisons and the rules of magic in his head. But a whisper broke his concentration. He turned around full circle, but couldn't see anything but the walls of stone and the wooden lid above him. Reaching up, he pressed against it again, using some of his magic to bolster his strength.

"Anders."

He quickly dropped his hands and retreated to a wall, looking around wildly.

"Who-" his voice echoed "-who's there? Who are you?"

He waited, the surface of the water rippling. Shivering now, he looked left and right, wondering how the templars had managed to get someone else in here with him. Or maybe they were outside? But no, the voice was in his ear.

"Anders!"

A shock of terror gripped his breast as the water bubbled. The temperature dropped and his teeth started to chatter. It was like ice, and his breath came out in puffs of white smoke. He would die of hypothermia if it continued. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, rubbing his skin, trying to get warm.

Suddenly it stopped.

The water stilled, returned to normal. Still shivering, Anders looked down at his reflection, just barely visible on the surface. It wavered, showing him dark, sunken eyes and lanky hair and a perpetual frown. He looked up.

And screamed.

"NO!! You can't be!"

Karl Thekla had emerged from the water's surface. His own eyes dead and flat, the sunburst brand of the Chantry visible on his forehead. Anders tried to scramble back. There was nowhere for him to go.

"Why do you look at me like that, Anders?"

It was Karl. But it couldn't be Karl. He killed Karl years ago to save him the pain. Karl begged for death.

_"Help him."_ Hawke's voice. Hawke was with him that night. Hawke watched him wash Karl's blood from his hands.

"I… I…"

"There's no peace in death, Anders. Only in Tranquility. Trust the templars, Anders. They know what's best."

"N-no! No I won't!"

Karl glided through the water, arms slowly rising. Anders panicked, pressing himself against the wall, trying to find a way out.

"Don't you miss me, Anders?"

"Karl…"

"Kiss me, Anders. And we can be together forever."

"NO!"

He screamed, he cried, and yet Karl drew closer. He could drown himself. Drown himself in the water and save himself from being made tranquil. Karl was a foot away. Now inches. Nose to nose.

The lid lifted and Anders winced in the candlelight, arms up to defend himself against… Against…

"Where did he go?" he asked, panicked, looking around quickly now for any sign of Karl.

The templars looked at each other, then at Anders.

"Get him out," Karras ordered.

Two templars reached down and grabbed him by the arms, pulling him out. Anders caught sight of the entire tub before they pushed the lid closed. There was no one. The water was clear down to the bottom of the stone. Shivering once again, he let himself be dragged back to his cell. They threw him onto the thin pallet, naked and wet.

"Get the fork."

Anders curled on his pallet. Fork? Were they going to feed him? His stomach growled. How long had he been there? He slept and woke and spent an hour – no, two hours? More? In the stocks. Then the tank… how long since he'd been taken? Was it a day? Two? He couldn't remember. That thought alone terrified him.

One of the templars grabbed his wrist, clapped a manacle around it, then the other. A short length of chain joined the cuffs, and he was hauled back to the wall, arms drawn up over his head. He looked up; a hook he hadn't noticed before jutted from the wall. The templar pulled his chain up and over it. He could just barely stand on the balls of his feet. Would they whip him again? This time on his front?

"About time," Karras spat at another, who handed him something wrapped in a cloth.

Anders watched him unfold it. A tuning fork? No, it was double-sided and was much too small. Two sharp prongs on one, two sharp prongs on the other. From middle dangled a strap of leather.

"Do you know what this is, mage?"

Anders didn't. He'd never seen anything like it before.

Karras backhanded him. Anders whimpered, unable to stop himself. His muscles ached, his back was sore. His cheek stung and he tasted blood.

"Lift your chin."

Anders didn't move.

The blow to his solar plexus winded him and he gasped harshly. The first breath was a mercy. The second one pained him.

"Lift. Your. Chin," Karras ordered again.

Anders looked up. What would be the point of defying him now? There was no need to keep his pride here, locked up under the Gallows. They would beat him, torture him, kill him. As long as they didn't turn him Tranquil. And his friends would come. Hawke would notice he was missing. Varric. They would wonder why he wasn't at the clinic, the Hanged Man. Hawke would realize he hadn't been home in a day. Or two. Or however long he'd been down here. Hawke would come.

Wouldn't he?

Anders felt the pricks of the prongs under his chin and the middle of his clavicle. Karras tied the leather strip tightly around his neck, keeping the fork in place.

"It's an ingenious invention by the ancient Tevinters. Magisters had several ways of torturing their slaves and their enemies," Karras said, stepping back, looking him over. "Not that I'm one to give credit to a bunch of robes of course, but they did have effective methods." He smirked. "We'll see how useful this little device can be."

Karras left, another templar shutting the cell door behind him, locking it. Anders was left to hang, the flickering of a torch in the hall his only light. His shoulders twinged and he was relieved to be able to push some of his magic toward the aches. Why did they leave him with his mana? The beatings he understood, the magebane, even the… He recalled the warm spurts of semen on his face, tasting it again, swallowing hard against the memory.

Templars were cruel, power-hungry, and had no issues imparting their will upon the mages in their charge. Those here were worse, and Meredith seemed to turn a blind eye. She had no idea what went on below her precious Gallows. Or perhaps she did and she just didn't care as long as she didn't have to fill out the paperwork for it. Anders hadn't seen any other bodies, heard any other screams. Was he alone down here then? He listened hard, but there was nothing to hear.

He lifted a foot, then shifted his weight, alternating legs. His arms ached and he pressed his magic into them to relieve it. What was the point of this? While his position was painful and frustrating, he could continue to use just a bit of mana to soothe himself. The tank… the tank perhaps he understood. It was easier to think outside of it, not listening to the sounds of his own breathing. And Karl. Karl wasn't there. Had never been there. The water had never turned icy. It would have taken another mage to do that and Anders knew he hadn't used magic, even in his panic. A hallucination?

He tried to turn his head to the side and winced, the prongs of the fork jabbing in deeper, keeping him in place. A bit of concentration relieved the stinging pain. His chest burned. Justice, perhaps. There was irritation, but how could he let the spirit know what was happening? How could you explain torture to someone you couldn't talk to? Someone who was incorporeal? Perhaps when the templars came back, Justice's frustration at his inaction would come to fruition. Then they would regret ever setting eyes on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're like me and fascinated by medieval torture devices and all the obscenely cruel things people are capable of, here is the device Karras put on Anders: 
> 
> <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heretic%27s_fork>
> 
> <http://www.medievality.com/images/torture/heretics_fork.jpg>
> 
> (links are not graphic/no blood)


	9. Chapter 9

Chasing apostates was the last thing Hawke had ever wanted to do. It fell even lower on the list than trekking through the Deep Roads and killing giant spiders and darkspawn. But Meredith had too much dirt on him. She could have him thrown back in prison if she wanted, or send out her templars for Merrill and Anders. He wasn't sure if she could reach Bethany where she was, but he wouldn't put it past Meredith. So he reluctantly agreed to track down the three still missing mages.

_Anders would have something to say about this, _he thought as he trudged to the alienage after he'd eaten breakfast.__

__It was still too early to check in with the de Launcets, and Hawke didn't particularly want to speak with them. The last time he ran into Dulci de Launcet it was several years ago. He'd been in the merchant square with his mother, picking out curtains for the estate of all things. The woman had not-so-subtly hinted at how rich she and her husband were, that they had two beautiful daughters and a summer home in Orlais. Hawke thought Dulci was throwing her girls at him, trying to get them married to him, but it turned out she simply was trying to shame Leandra. She was supposed to have married the Comte when she ran off with Malcolm instead._ _

__Hawke told Dulci in no uncertain terms that Leandra had definitely gotten the better deal, and Leandra had repaid his loyalty by telling him to be quiet. It wasn't a memory he really liked to revisit, and going to speak to the de Launcets was something he simply didn't want to do. Though he thought maybe he could throw it in Dulci's face that she'd given birth to a mage, so really was she one to talk about _his_ family?_ _

__"I can hear you grinding your teeth, Hawke," Varric said cautiously._ _

__"That's what happens when you sleep alone," Isabela joked._ _

__Hawke glared at them both. Part of him wished he was still in prison, that Meredith hadn't bothered granting him a 'favor' in exchange for his services. Markus was much more desirable company than the knight-commander. And now even his friends were starting to get on his nerves._ _

__"Look, why don't you two go ask about Evelina? Get an idea where she might be. Darktown would be my guess."_ _

__"You should go instead," Isabela said airily. "Stop by the clinic and let Anders give you an enema to remove that stick from your arse."_ _

__He sighed. He was probably taking out his frustrations on the wrong people. "Sorry. Spending a night in a jail cell and then getting told to go hunt runaway mages or else puts a damper on the cheery mood."_ _

__"Forgiven," she replied graciously._ _

__They found Huon's wife, and Hawke listened to her talk about the templars that came to question, and Huon's visit. She seemed absolutely terrified of him. It didn't bode well for the idea of Huon going back to the Circle quietly. Hawke didn't feel much like coming face to face with a Circle-trained blood mage. Decimus, Tarohne, Quentin, Hadriana… the list went on. He'd had his fair share of maleficarum to last a lifetime. But Nyssa's eyes had gone wide, filling with tears as she spoke of her husband. Which was why Hawke agreed to come back that night to help her._ _

__The trip to the de Launcets went about the same as Hawke expected, though Dulci did treat him a bit more warmly than he thought she would have. Perhaps it was his title, or the fact that he saved her husband's life. After all, Guillaume de Launcet was there the night Hawke killed the Arishok. And as Emile sounded about as dangerous as a barely weaned mabari pup, they turned their attentions to Darktown instead._ _

__"Detour?" Isabela ventured, gesturing down the alley where Anders' clinic was._ _

__Hawke crossed his arms, tapping his foot, thinking. He could go and see if Anders was in, talk to him. Or they could just move along, ask the next refugee they saw if they'd heard of Evelina and get this over and done with. He'd be back to the alienage in time to keep Nyssa safe and then go scouring Lowtown bars for Emile. Which, admittedly, Lowtown bars sounded like a good idea now rather than later._ _

__"No," Hawke decided. "If he's not at the estate tonight I'll go by tomorrow to talk to him."_ _

__Anders was in the back of his mind as they talked to Walter and Cricket. What would he have said about chasing apostates for Meredith? Probably he'd want to help them find a way to move on from Kirkwall, to escape and go on the run. Anything to keep them out of the Gallows. And Hawke, wrapped around his lover's finger as he was, would have coughed up the coin to help them out. But even Anders would have to agree that there was no helping Evelina. The fight didn't last long; she wasn't that strong. Still, it was devastating the way Cricket clung to Walter, the sadness in Walter's voice as he remembered her._ _

__"She loved you. She was a good woman. Remember her as she was," Hawke said, and pressed some coins into Walter's hand._ _

__Even if he couldn't help Evelina, he could at least try to take care of the children she'd given her life to save. Feeling heavy-hearted and not joining in the banter between Varric and Isabela, Hawke dragged himself back up to the alienage._ _

__Only to find he was too late._ _

__The battle was fierce, and he was only too relieved when Merrill, hearing the commotion, came out to join them._ _

__"I'm sorry!" she flailed as Hawke wrenched his greave from his leg._ _

__"You didn't do it," he hissed. "It's fine."_ _

__His pants were torn, the spell Huon cast somehow found its way under the metal plate._ _

__"But only if I could heal!"_ _

__"It's fine," he said again through gritted teeth. "Get me some water. And elfroot if you have it."_ _

__She ran into her house and Varric knelt down next to him to look at the wound._ _

__"Just a burn. You'll be fine. We'll get some decent ale in you and you won't remember a thing," he said, clapping Hawke on a pauldron._ _

__Merrill came back carrying a bucket and two vials of red liquid. She and Varric carefully rinsed the wound, Hawke pounding a gauntleted fist against the ground._ _

__"Andraste's ass that _stings_!" he swore. _ _

__"You're such a wimp," Isabela noted. "You've been having Anders heal you pain-free for too long. You forgot what it meant to take a real hit."_ _

__"I'll show you a real hit," Hawke growled._ _

__"You wouldn't hit a woman," Isabela teased._ _

__"I'm all for equality," Hawke said, breathing hard, looking up at her._ _

__She smirked and strolled away. Varric treated the wound with the potion, giving him the second one to drink to try to numb the pain. After it was wrapped, Hawke decided to leave his greave off. By the time they reached the Hanged Man, he could finally put his weight on it again. Varric promised him all the alcohol he could imbibe. But they didn't even make it to bottom of the stairs before a man with a very obnoxious Orlesian accent called out for another round._ _

__"Thinking that's our other fearsome blood mage?" Varric asked as Hawke turned to look._ _

__Hawke sighed. He just wanted the night to be over. Instead, he approached the man. On any other day he might have laughed at Emile's intoxication, his awkward proclamations. But he didn't have the patience. So he snapped at him._ _

__"Your mother gave you that money to get out of Kirkwall, not to piss it away getting drunk on swill," he growled, hauling him up by his doublet._ _

__"I… I… you're right," Emile squeaked. "I will… There's a boat leaving Kirkwall soon. I will find my way onto it."_ _

__"Good," Hawke said, shoving him away._ _

__Emile ran out quickly._ _

__"You know, Hawke," Varric said, "if you wanted to make him wet himself, you could've just pulled your sword on him."_ _

__Hawke turned his glare on Varric, then hobbled up to the dwarf's suite. "I have ten sovereigns in my pocket," he said, collapsing in a chair and reaching up to strip his armor. "Half of it for ale, the other half to lose to you and Isabela in cards."_ _

__He drank, he played cards, and he passed out on the table before slumping to the floor. If Anders wanted to avoid him, fine. But after the long day he had and the horrible things he saw that the Circle was causing, Hawke didn't feel like returning to an empty house and cold bed that night._ _


	10. Chapter 10

The purpose of the fork became apparent the first time Anders started to fall asleep. Strung up and hanging from the hook, unable to turn his head left or right, when he started to nod off the prongs pressed painfully into his chin and collarbone. While he could use his magic to heal the wounds, nothing could substitute the much needed sleep he was missing. He quickly lost track of time, feeling sore and exhausted to his very core. The templars came back three times while he wore the fork to hold a water skin to his lips and feed him bread. The water was laced with magebane every time, making him weaker, making it more difficult for him to heal himself. They left a crude chamber pot at his feet, though they might not as well have, as tired and chained up as he was.

Hours or days or weeks later, Karras finally returned. Anders winced at the harsh light of the torches. Karras gestured, and two templars pulled Anders down from the wall, supporting him between them as his legs gave way. Karras reached up and removed the leather tie, pulling the fork from Anders' chin. Immediately his head drooped, neck and shoulders finally getting a much needed reprieve. He nearly fell asleep as they dragged him down the hall, not bothering this time to place the sack over his head.

He was limp as a rag doll as they pulled him into a room, shoving him down on a rickety table. His wrists were bound together with thick ropes and pulled out in front of him. The templar who tied them tight smirked at him. Anders could barely stand, legs weak, and leaned as much weight onto the table as he could. A strap of leather was wrapped around his back, a bit unnecessarily as he wasn't about to get up. He felt the familiar itching of magebane, but it was tolerable through his exhaustion. Pressing his forehead to the scrubbed wood, he tried to breathe, tried to remember his goals, his purpose.

_You are a Circle mage, you ran away. You joined the Grey Wardens. You will get justice for every mage in Thedas._

Karras chuckled. "Yes, thank you, knight-corporal. That'll do nicely."

Anders tried to see what Karras was holding, but pinned as he was, couldn't turn his head.

"You work for the mage underground."

"What?" Anders asked, though tired as he was, he slurred.

The whistling of a strap through the air and he felt it sting his bare bottom. He cried out, trying to get away from the pain.

"The mage underground," Karras said again. "You work for it. You know their secrets."

Anders pressed his chapped lips together. They wouldn't get him to betray the others. Another slap and he let out a muffled whimper through his clenched teeth. 

"Give us names and we'll let you go."

_No you won't,_ Anders thought. _You'll kill me or make me Tranquil._

Two more lashes and he started to cry, tears welling in his eyes. He was stronger than this, could handle much more pain. But exhaustion and lack of proper nourishment were taking their toll. Karras hit him again and he sobbed.

"Names, mage."

"No!"

Anders lost count of the lashes. Every hit drove his hips into the edge of the table, bruising them painfully.

"He's not going to give them up, Lieutenant."

"He simply needs more persuasion."

Karras came to stand in front of him, holding something Anders had never seen before. Like the fork, this appeared to be an instrument to further torture him. Metal, in the shape of a pear on a long rod with a turnkey at the end of that, Anders couldn't wrap his brain around what it could possibly be used for. Until Karras started unscrewing the top. The pear separated into four parts, opening wide.

"Normally," Karras said, "this would be inserted into your mouth and opened to cause pain to your jaw. It was thought to loosen lips of those who didn't want to talk. But I think we can find a more effective use, don't you?" He tightened the screw, closing the leaves of the pear, and walked away.

Anders felt the cold metal of the pear against his backside. Hands separated him and the pear was pushed to his anus. His stomach tightened, jaw aching as he clenched, fingers wrapped around the ropes that held his arms in place.

"One more chance to give me names, mage."

"Flames take you," Anders whispered.

He tried not to scream as the metal pushed against his hole. Magebane was applied, he felt the itching burning as he was torn apart. He scrabbled at the table, trying to get away but there was nowhere to go.

"N-no! NO! STOP!"

A babble of pleas broke from his lips, begging them to stop as the metal breached him. Burning, tearing, his legs went numb and it was a mercy. He lifted his head only to slam it down onto the table, trying to find any relief from the agony.

"Hold his head. We don't want him passing out."

Fingers twisted in his hair, yanking his head back painfully. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his nose running as he sobbed. He tried to focus on anything else, but Karras was relentless. As soon as the device was in fully, he turned the screw. Anders screamed himself hoarse as the leaves of the pear opened, separating him, splitting him open.

"Give me names!" Karras called over the sound of Anders' cries.

"NO!"

His chest hitched, sobbing as he felt blood streak down his thighs. Karras continued to open the pear and Anders pulled at his binds, the rope cutting into his wrists, hands and fingers turning red.

"Still no?"

"V-void take you," Anders spat with as much vitriol as he could manage through his tears.

Karras sighed. "Very well. We'll have to think of something else then. Corporal."

"Yes, sir?"

"Your men can have their fun. See to it that he's not permanently damaged. I'll prepare the ritual room."

The door opened and then closed. The fingers curled in his hair released him, and Anders heard a few whispers. Then, to his relief, the pressure inside him lessened. He grunted and cried out when the pear was yanked from him.

"I'm not getting my cock all bloody."

"Then you clean him."

A wet cloth was a small mercy. The magebane prevented him from healing himself. Shifting of cloth and plate.

"Get me some of that oil."

The head of a cock was pushed to his torn hole and Anders buried his face into his arm. The templar's prick was small in comparison to the pear, but the internal wounds stung and ached. Anders' throat was sore, he was too tired to scream. Tears continued to flow and he sobbed quietly as they raped him one after another, laughing as they came inside him, on his bloodied backside, against his thighs.

"It'll be fine, Anders."

Anders looked up. Crouching next to the table, head tilted, a small smile on his lips was Hawke.

"Help me," Anders whispered.

"I will. I'll save you. You know that, right?"

"Yes."

"He's going round the bend," a templar said with a laugh.

"Talking to demons, no doubt. Making a deal."

"Karras won't like that."

"Can't help it if he becomes an abomination. Robes are too weak to handle that shit."

Hawke reached up and touched his cheek. "I love you. You'll be fine."

"Don't go. Wait. Wait!"

But Hawke disappeared, leaving Anders with the templars. He wasn't sure how much time passed when Karras finally returned.

"Get him up. The ritual's ready."

Anders was yanked to his feet, but couldn't walk. Shaking and shivering, he was dragged to another room. His head lolled to the side, wrists still bound in front of him. He saw a high ceiling, octagonal space, and in the middle of the room…

"No… NO! PLEASE!"

The door slammed shut, cutting off his screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The device that was used, if you're interested:
> 
> <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Choke_pear_%28torture%29>
> 
> (Again no graphic imagery/no blood)


	11. Chapter 11

It was a week before he broke down, asking Isabela to pick the locks on the clinic door when no amount of knocking and pleading outside of them yielded any results. Hawke strode in, pack full of elfroot and bandages, prepared to present them as peace offerings to an irritated Anders. But the clinic was empty. Not only that, a fine layer of dust had settled over the beds. Though situated in the heart of Darktown, Anders kept his clinic clean. And if not him, a handful of volunteers who were only too happy to help out their healer. He glanced back at Isabela, who leaned against the wall, twirling her dagger nonchalantly.

"He wouldn't just leave his clinic," Hawke said.

Isabela shrugged. "Maybe he moved house."

Hawke frowned. "His stuff's still here."

"He could be in transition. How bad was that fight you had?"

Hawke moved to the back of the clinic to a partitioned off area where Anders used to sleep before he moved to the Amell estate. The blanket on the cot was folded up, the pillow unruffled. His desk which was little more than a large packing crate held a dried out bottle of ink and two broken quills. Crumpled parchment littered the top, and Hawke smoothed them out. Half-formed thoughts, a few paragraphs of Anders' manifesto. Frowning still, Hawke moved out to the cabinet and tried to open a drawer.

"Little help here, Isabela."

Isabela tutted but crossed the clinic and picked the lock. "You could learn how to do that if you wanted."

"Easier to smash stuff," he said distractedly, and looked through it. "Everything's still here."

He even saw the drakestone and sela petrae he helped Anders collect. The ingredients were so important to Anders to the point where he didn't even feel comfortable telling Hawke the truth. Why would he just leave them behind? Confused, Hawke took the more expensive ingredients and boxed them up. If Anders wanted them, he could find them at home. It was a stubborn move, but Hawke was a stubborn man. Tucking the box under his arm, he gestured Isabela out.

"I wouldn't worry about it, Hawke," Isabela said as he closed the doors. "He's probably just angry still. This is why I never involve feelings. Makes it all complicated."

"I really don't need a lecture on the pitfalls of being in love, thanks."

"Suit yourself. If you need me you know where to find me."

He watched her skip down the steps and out of sight. With one last look back at the clinic, he made up his mind on where he would go next. Storing the box of ingredients in the estate's basement, he headed first to the docks. His armor clanked as loudly as any templar's, and people tended to get out of the way for him as he stalked to one of the far rows. Tucked in the back of an alley of a barely used warehouse was the woman he was looking for. And she wasn't intimidated by his armor.

"Selby," he greeted.

She smirked and crossed her arms. The only reason she put up with him at all was because he was a known friend of mages, and likely because Anders spoke highly of him.

"Hawke."

She was also the only one who didn't seem impressed that he'd single-handedly killed a Qunari Arishok.

"Have you seen Anders lately?" It was best to cut to the chase. Women like Selby hated having their time wasted. "He hasn't been in his clinic and he hasn't… come home," he finished, slightly uncomfortable. 

Not that he cared who knew of his relationship with Anders, but Anders seemed to want to keep it somewhat private. Apostates coming to and leaving from the Amell estate would raise eyebrows. He had even told Merrill off once or twice for brazenly approaching Hawke's doorstep. After all, Kirkwall did like its scandals.

"Can't say I have," she said, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"He's…" Hawke hesitated. He didn't want to say, 'missing.' After all, he couldn't be sure Anders wasn't just avoiding him. "We parted on bad terms and I haven't seen him since. I was just checking to see if you'd seen him."

"No, I haven't," she confirmed, looking at him suspiciously. "Have you talked to Lirene?"

Hawke shook his head. "I came here first. She was my next stop. If you see him… tell him I'm sorry. And I'd like to talk to him."

Selby frowned, and he shifted under her scrutiny.

"I'll do that," she said finally.

"Thanks," he said, and left quickly.

He climbed the steps to Lowtown to Lirene's shop, dropping a few coins in the box at the front like he usually did. He hadn't expected to hear anything different from Lirene, but the worried look in her eye concerned him.

"I'll keep my ear to the ground, serah," she assured him. "You don't think…"

Hawke frowned. "I don't know," he said, cutting her off. He knew what she was thinking, and it was a possibility. He just simply didn't want to believe that the templars took him. "Thanks, Lirene. I'll let you know if he turns up."

He started up toward Hightown, intent on checking one more place before resigning himself to inquiring at the Gallows. Selby might have lied for Anders if he was trying to avoid Hawke. But Lirene was being truthful. She was worried. Hawke wasn't aware of anyone else who might have known where Anders was. He had friends in the mage underground, but Hawke had never been introduced to anyone other than Selby. Growing anxious now, he hurried up the steps of the chantry and pushed the door open.

Thankfully it was fairly empty, and he found Sebastian by himself, replacing candles that had burned to their nubs with fresh ones. He looked up from his kneeling position, and Hawke thought it odd to see him out of his armor and in Chantry robes. Sebastian smiled serenely at him.

"Hawke," he said, offering a hand.

Hawke gripped it, but let go quickly. "It's not a social visit."

"How might I be of assistance?"

"Have you seen Anders?"

It was a deliberate, abrupt attempt to elicit a naked response. It worked. Sebastian didn't flinch at the name, but his brow knitted. Hawke watched his facial expression change from surprised to confused.

"No, I haven't. Though admittedly I only ever see him here when he's with you. He's not very fond of the Chantry in general, is he?"

_Maybe if your Chantry stopped enslaving his kind, he might be a little more open to listening to your Maker's words…_

Hawke bit his tongue, calmed himself, and asked, "You haven't seen him outside the chantry either, have you?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Perhaps Varric-"

Hawke shook his head. "No, he hasn't seen him either. Or Isabela or Merrill or any of our mutual acquaintances."

"Did something happen?"

_Yes, I yelled at him and stormed off like an idiot._

Not that their personal lives were any of Sebastian's business. Hawke made no secret of his relationship with Anders when they were with friends. He'd been free with his affections toward Anders in Varric's suite, in the estate. On trips out to the Wounded Coast or up Sundermount. But he was always careful if Sebastian was around. Then again, Fenris and Sebastian were friends, and Hawke never guarded himself around the elf.

"Bit of a disagreement."

"That's unusual. I thought you two were close."

_As close as you can get when you're sleeping with someone,_ Hawke thought, but didn't say.

"Well, if for whatever reason he turns up here-"

"I'll let him know you're looking for him, of course," Sebastian said graciously.

Hawke offered a tight-lipped smile. "Thanks, Sebastian."

He left, contemplating visiting the Gallows. It was a tricky thing. He'd have to speak to a sympathetic templar, Thrask perhaps, and hope they weren't overheard. If Meredith got wind that Anders was missing – if he truly was missing – and he wasn't hauled into the Circle for being an apostate, they most certainly would take up the hunt for him. Anders was only afforded a modicum of protection because it was known he was Hawke's friend. If Meredith suspected falsely that Anders had fallen out of good favor with Hawke and was outside his protection, she might take the opportunity to strike.

Halfway to the docks, Varric found him in Lowtown.

"I need your help with something."

Hawke frowned. If it had been anyone but Varric, he might have told them to get stuffed. "Anything for you, Varric."

"Aw, making me blush. Come on. Remember the house where we found Bartrand?"

"How could I not?" That was a nightmare Hawke would soon rather forget.

"Well it turns out that the place might be… haunted."

Hawke sighed and followed Varric back up to Hightown. This would be a long night.


	12. Chapter 12

Cold and naked he fell through the Veil, hurtling downward. He flailed, crying out as the ground came up faster and faster. He was going to slam into it. He braced himself for impact, closing his eyes. His stomach lurched, his speed decreased. He opened his eyes and found himself in a warm embrace. Looking up, he squinted in the bright light. But it wasn't Thedas, it was the dull orange and brown of the Fade. Someone was holding him, carrying him. He shivered, but wasn't scared.

The figure carried him into a lake with muddy brown water, the silt puffing up in clouds as they walked further in, until Anders was floating comfortably. The orange mist in the sky shifted, covering the light and he was able to see the man's face now. Square-jawed and scarred, with shoulder-length dark blond hair, he looked every inch a warrior. While Anders had never seen this man before, he immediately knew what he was.

"Faith."

The spirit nodded, and released him. Anders felt a wrenching in his chest. He closed his eyes against the pain and slipped under the water. The agony he felt from the beatings, from everything inflicted upon him in the Gallows, seemed to disappear. He emerged, pushing his hair back out of his eyes.

"You're a spirit," Anders said, wiping his face. The water felt warm, comforting.

"My brother is trapped inside your soul." Faith's voice was light and airy, a stark contrast to Justice's.

Anders touched his breastbone, hand unfurling until it covered his heart. "Justice and I are one. He… he was stuck outside the Fade. I gave him a willing host."

Faith looked down at him, eyes blue, shimmery and pupil-less. "It is time for him to come home."

"What? How? You can't!" Anders said suddenly, backing away through the water. "I need him!"

Faith did not advance, simply offered him a sad smile. "He does not belong in your world, mortal. He belongs here, with his kin."

Two hands gripped Anders from behind and he fought against them, twisting and turning. He slipped under the water and his eyes burned as he opened them, looking for a way through the lake to get away from the spirits. The water was cloudy; he couldn't see more than a few inches in front of him. The spirits pulled him up.

"We have healed your ills, mortal," Faith said. "We wouldn't leave you with nothing."

Anders, exhausted, relaxed in Faith's embrace once more. "If you take Justice, I won't have anything. I'm alone. You can't leave me with the templars. Please."

"You must believe that you will be saved."

Anders scoffed, covering his face. A feeling of overwhelming desperation came over him. "Please," he whispered.

He felt Faith's cool touch, the feelings of despair and anguish juxtaposed with a calming acceptance. His chest started to ache.

"Trust me," Faith said, reaching down, caressing Anders' cheek.

Swallowing hard, Anders nodded. Faith carefully took him into his arms, turning him around, holding him gently but firmly around the waist. Two other spirits moved forward, gliding through the water but not disturbing it. Their fists plunged into his chest and he felt their icy fingers in his soul.

He started to scream.

"Out! Out! Pull him out!"

Suddenly the Fade was gone. He was lying on the floor of the octagonal room, curled on the freezing stone. With a sudden rush, all his aches returned. The soreness in his backside, the dried blood on his legs, the tears on his cheeks. His throat ached, raw from his screaming, and his wrists were still bound. He started to mumble, words spilling from him as if he had no control, as if the spirit of Faith was forcing him to speak.

"Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion should they set themselves against me."

Karras scowled, perhaps disgusted with hearing the words of the Chant from his lips, and pulled him roughly to his feet. "What was that, mage?"

"Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide." Anders couldn't stop. He started to cry, the pain in his chest almost unbearable in comparison to the dull throbs in his ass and legs.

"Shut your whore mouth!"

Karras shook him hard and shoved him down to his knees. Anders reached up, hands clasped together in prayer.

"There is no darkness in the Maker's light," Anders whispered.

A gauntlet came across his cheek, splitting it open. He tasted blood, sobbing quietly. That same hand grabbed his hair and a cock was forced between his lips. It didn't even occur to him to bite down, though another templar grabbed his jaw and held it open. Karras thrust into him, Anders gagging each time. He felt his stomach churning.

"You're going back in there, mage," Karras sneered. "And no," he grunted, "foul magic is going to save you. You're going in there and you're going to deal with your demons. Maybe if you're lucky, they'll just fuck you," he panted, his words slowing, his voice coming as growl, "instead of possessing you."

Lucky. If he was lucky. If he was lucky, he wouldn't have been born a mage.

_"Karl."_

_"Yes, sweetling?"_

_Anders smiled. He loved it when Karl used endearments. They were curled up in a room in the tower facing the west. The sun was setting, but it was still high enough to stream into the tall windows. Karl brought up blankets and a bedroll and after an afternoon of lovemaking, they were cuddled together, relaxing. It was dangerous, they both knew it. But being together in such a way was worth the risk of getting caught._

_"Do you regret being born a mage?"_

_"Never."_

_The response was swift and immediate and surprised Anders. "Why?"_

_"Because. The Maker made me the way I am. Perfect, imperfect, it doesn't matter. Besides, if I wasn't a mage, I wouldn't have met you."_

_Anders smiled and they shared another kiss._

"Suck," Karras ordered, breaking him out of his mind.

Anders worked his tongue around the head of his cock, sucking and slurping awkwardly. Karras stroked himself, grunting as he came.

"Swallow it," Karras ordered.

Anders did, tasting the salty tang on his tongue mixing with his tears and the coppery taste of blood. Karras stepped back, and the templar holding Anders' jaw let him go. Anders fell forward, coughing, gagging. He retched, but there was so little left in his stomach, he brought up only semen and bile. Someone threw a dirty rag at him.

"Clean it. Be grateful we're not making you lick it up."

Hands still bound and shaking now, he took the rag gingerly and started wiping the stone floor. Someone grabbed him by his hair and pulled him up again.

"Put him back in."

Before he could even protest, Anders was forced head first into the lyrium well. He looked up, breathing hard, chest aching. Faith stood over him, knelt down, and pulled him to his feet.

"They pulled me out," Anders gasped, then bent double.

"We knew you would return. Let's continue."

He couldn't reply, couldn't protest; the spirits were already upon him, holding his arms. Faith moved in front of him, hands plunging into Anders' chest. Anders felt them deep inside him, grasping at that heavy weight. Faith pulled, and no amount of torture the templars could inflict felt as excruciating as this. Anders could no longer hear himself screaming, the agony of the extraction causing him to lose himself. He blacked out. When he came to, he was lying on a cold stone floor.

The ritual chamber?

"Anders."

Anders looked up. His wrists were unbound, but the pain of the extraction and the wounds on his body throbbed mercilessly.

"Anders."

"Justice?"

"I apologize. We never should have joined. It was unnatural, and I was no better than a demon to request it of you."

"Justice… no," Anders croaked, reaching up to the spirit.

Justice removed his helmet, his form shimmery and transparent. His eyes were bright, shining, pupil-less. His features were sharp and his hair dark, closely cropped. He looked calm now, though puffs of white vapor evaporated from his skin.

"What's wrong?" Anders asked, collapsing to the floor, no longer able to keep himself upright.

"It was the damage of your anger. You left me scarred. The Fade is the only cure for me, lest I become Vengeance, harsh and wrathful."

"I… need y-" The word caught in his throat and he curled on his side.

A cool hand touched his forehead. "Your soul will heal now that I am gone. I am… sorry. Goodbye, Anders."

When he opened his eyes again, he was in his cell, lying on a thin, ragged, and stained bedroll.

"Karras said to let him sleep. He's got a lot more in store for this one."

Their cruel chuckles echoed down the hall as Anders closed his eyes one more time.


	13. Chapter 13

Hawke could count on one hand all the times he'd been truly scared.

First was when his father was dying of an illness that no one seemed to know how to cure. They'd even braved the Chantry's faith healers. When Malcolm died, he told Hawke to take care of their family, that Hawke was the man of the house now. Hawke hadn't cried, but he was terrified of the prospect of keeping his family alive, together, safe.

 _Bang up job you did there, Garrett,_ he thought miserably.

The next two of course were Carver's death and nearly losing Bethany. Not the darkspawn or traversing the Deep Roads. Not deserting the army at Ostagar to return to his family, to get them to safety. Not even seeing the huge ogre bearing down to lift Carver through the air. After, in the darkness of the hold of that ship, when the only sounds were the waves crashing and the babies of refugee mothers crying. When it truly set in that Carver was gone. And then in the months after Bethany left with Stroud, until he'd gotten word she was okay.

The fourth time was when he heard the words, 'white lilies' from Bodahn's lips. He remembered what that meant, what it could mean. His panic as he raced through the Lowtown foundry, trying to find his mother, realizing he was too late to save her. The idea, the thought that he was truly alone after she died. Holding her cold body as he cried shamelessly at the loss.

And now.

"You swear you haven't seen him, Thrask."

Thrask looked around, making sure they weren't attracting eavesdroppers. "I wouldn't lie to you, Champion. I haven't seen him. He would've been brought to the knight-captain for room assignment. Possibly made an enchanter since he has Circle training."

Hawke shook his head. "If you see him."

"I'll send word at once."

"Champion!"

Hawke looked up. Knight-Captain Cullen was approaching. Maker, he was the last person Hawke wanted to see. Well, perhaps Meredith. She was still irritated with him for letting Emile go. But as Hawke wasn't an official apostate hunter and merely doing the templars a favor, there was nothing to charge him with that would make sense on paper. Perhaps she'd decided to send her pet dog to annoy him, which would explain Cullen's presence now.

"Knight-Captain," Hawke said tersely. He had to go. There could be people in Darktown who might have seen Anders. Or maybe he could trek Sundermount to ask Keeper Marethari if Anders had been by to trade.

"The First Enchanter wished to speak with you. I was on my way to deliver this letter to the courier but as you're here now," he said, handing the letter to Hawke.

Hawke took it, frowning at the broken seal. "You regularly read the First Enchanter's correspondence?"

Cullen had the decency to look ashamed. "It's standard procedure. All incoming and outgoing communications are read and searched."

"All _mage_ communications," Hawke corrected with a snarl. He looked the letter over and sighed. "I'll be there in a minute," he said, turning back to Thrask.

Cullen didn't move. 

Hawke frowned, turning once more to face him. "Or I guess," he said through gritted teeth, "I'll go now." He looked at Thrask. "I'll be in touch."

Thrask nodded, saluted Cullen, who returned it before leading Hawke to Templar Hall. Hawke had been in there just a while ago to report about the apostates. Meredith showed absolutely no emotion for Huon or Evelina, something Hawke was quick to point out. He wasn't so eager to return her office now. But thankfully her door was shut, and Hawke nodded to Cullen before slipping into Orsino's study.

"Champion."

How Hawke was starting to hate that title. 

He listened to Orsino speak of a mage-templar conspiracy and tried very hard not to roll his eyes. Of course he understood the importance of keeping something like this outside of Meredith's notice, so he agreed to help. It was too late and too dark to hike Sundermount anyway. No amount of broken ankles or necks would bring him any closer to finding out where Anders was. And by now, Hawke was fairly sure his lover wasn't just avoiding him. Someone would have seen him. The apostate healer running a free clinic in Darktown wasn't exactly something that was easily overlooked.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? 

He caught the eye of a blond templar as he left the hall, frowning as he remembered the man's face. But mostly what he remembered were Alain's scared and timid whispers.

_"Sometimes he comes into my room at night. He makes me do… things. Don't tell anyone, he said he'd make me Tranquil if I told!"_

Hawke clenched his fists as he took the ferry back to the docks, ignoring the ferryman's odd look at him. The Circle wasn't a solution. Meredith either couldn't control her own, or she was purposefully turning a blind eye to the abuses. He wasn't sure what would be worse, ignorance on her part or acceptance. He disembarked and headed to Hightown where Orsino said the mages and templars would be meeting. Going alone would be foolish though, so he took a detour to Fenris's mansion, knocking on the unlocked door. No answer, but he didn't expect one. He let himself inside and took the stairs two at a time. The knock on the master suite got him a response.

"Enter."

Hawke pushed on the half open door. Fenris was in just his leggings, swinging his massive two-handed greatsword slowly in a circular motion around his head. He moved into another stance, raising the blade, looking at Hawke before turning again.

"And you told Varric you were just joking about the dancing."

Fenris let his arms drop, carefully sheathing his sword before turning pick up his tunic. "We all have our secrets."

"I'm on an assignment for Orsino. I could use your help."

Fenris shook out his tunic and dressed, reaching next for his belt. "Of course."

He relayed the request and Fenris raised an eyebrow as he tugged on his gauntlets.

"You think we may be walking into the thick of some mage-templar cabal at midnight and you want to go in with just the two of us." He paused, frowning. "If you're suicidal because the abomination's left you-"

"He hasn't left me," Hawke snapped. "He's just… not around right now. And if he was, I'd be asking him along as well. You have a penchant for getting yourself poked full of holes."

Fenris scowled. "Says the one with the shield. Perhaps you ought to learn to defend better."

Hawke sighed. "If you'd rather not come-"

"I didn't say that."

"Good. Can we go now then? With any luck, they'll just scatter when they hear us coming."

Fenris muttered something, but took up his sword and followed Hawke out to the courtyard. Unfortunately, Hawke's hopes were dashed as several mages and templars took up arms against them. Hawke hadn't even had time to try to convince them they were friendly, that they didn't really want a fight. And as Fenris blocked a blow that would've taken his head, Hawke mentally kicked himself. He was being impulsive, losing concentration, his mind half on Anders.

"It looks like their base of operation is a place called Gardibali's Warehouse," Fenris said once the fight was over. He was searching the pockets of the dead, and handed the scrap of paper to Hawke.

Hawke let him have the other spoils. He didn't need potions or coin after all, and Fenris earned it. He looked at the paper in his hand, frowning.

_Recruits. Recruits for what?_

He crumpled the note and shoved it in his pocket. Orsino would want to see it.

"Maybe we should get Varric before we head to the docks," Hawke suggested, and Fenris agreed.

They made the journey quickly, and the extra muscle was indeed a good idea as they were attacked yet again by another group of templars and mages.

"Someone ought to tell them we're not the bad guys," Varric said.

"Champion?"

Hawke turned, sword raised. But the templar had not drawn his weapon, hands raised in peace.

"Pl-please, Champion. I never wanted this. If I'd known it was you, well I never would have agreed. I don't hold with kidnapping."

_Kidnapping?_

Hawke's blood ran cold. "Who – Keran, right?"

"Yes, serah," Keran said, lowering his hands slowly.

"You said kidnapping. Kidnapping who?" Hawke demanded.

"I told them not to. They're on the Wounded Coast. At the old ruins. The mage-"

Hawke was out the door before Keran could finish his sentence.


	14. Chapter 14

His mother's hair was soft and blond. And she always wore it tied back in a braid. Why didn't he remember that? She was cooking breakfast, the smell of sausages sizzling in the pan. His father outside tending the cows. Three had just birthed calves which meant fresh milk. If the market prices were good, they would buy honey to sweeten it, just how he liked it. He raced downstairs and hugged his mother around her swollen middle.

"Hello baby," he whispered to her stomach before kissing the bump. He grinned up at her. "Is it a brother or a sister?"

She smiled, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "We'll know in a few months. Set the table and call your father in."

He skipped outside, his eight-year old enthusiasm carrying him quickly through the fields. "Father! Father!"

A tall blond man who looked like his father but wasn't stood in front of him. "This isn't real."

"Wait. I know you."

The man touched his arm.

Anders felt the burning pain of a poker heated red-hot against his arm where the man touched him. They were laughing at him again.

"Stubborn. No demons yet."

"Give it time. Back in."

And he was hurtled again into the Veil. His stomach had stopped lurching and he stopped feeling sick whenever they forced him back to the Fade. A large, fat bear that looked like it suffered the blight lay in front of him.

"Hmmm is it a human? A mortal boy," the bear hummed.

"You are Sloth," Anders identified immediately.

The sloth demon was the first he encountered in the Fade during his Harrowing. But the less he thought about his own Harrowing the better. He'd come away alive but traumatized.

"Perhaps you should stay here and rest," Sloth said, yawning and stretching. "Such a quiet place, the Fade."

"This is not my world," Anders said.

Suddenly he felt his arm snap. He only registered the grey-white of the bone poking up through the skin before the pain set in and he screamed.

"Oho, that's foul."

But whether the demon said that or a templar, Anders had no idea. He tried to push his healing magic into it when it snapped again.

"Karras ain't going to like that."

"Please, let me die," Anders whispered.

"Is that what you truly wish?"

Anders looked at the owner of the new voice. Another demon, this one of desire. He'd seen them, fought them. There had been three the night they killed Quentin, one for each of the women that he'd taken to create his monstrosity.

"If you give me your soul, I will set you free. We'll seal the deal with a kiss," she said, kneeling.

Anders closed his eyes, looking away. "No. No, go away. You won't kill me. You'll turn me into an abomination."

"Such an ugly word," she purred, running her hands over his naked body, nails scraping down his side to his hip.

"Go away. I said no."

"Poor thing. Look what they put you through. I'll take care of you. This body. I'll heal it and we can do wondrous things together."

He whimpered, trying to get away from that hand. She started to stroke his cock and to his horror, he felt his arousal building.

"There, that wasn't so difficult," she murmured, leaning down. Her tongue unfurled, long and snake-like, and licked him base to tip.

"Ngh. No!"

"Look at 'im. 'e's getting 'is rocks off."

"Keep him there. Break his leg."

Pain exploded in his knee as a boot stamped down upon it. He couldn't scream anymore, mouth too dry, throat too raw. The desire demon was above him now, removing the thin sheath of fabric around her waist. She straddled him, lowering herself slowly. Suddenly, she disappeared with a cry and everything faded to grey. The pain intensified and he felt himself starting to hyperventilate. His skin felt cold and clammy and he only just managed to turn to the side, retching against the waves of nausea that wracked his body.

When he opened his eyes, his bones were half-healed, his own body's magical defenses coming to his aid. He wasn't in the room anymore, but his cell. Karras or the others must have dragged him out while he was unconscious. A water skin was left next to the bedroll he was curled upon, but he was too weak to pick it up. He heard the sounds of shouting from down the hall.

_Maker, just another hour of sleep before the next round, please,_ he prayed silently.

The cell door creaked open, and he didn't bother looking. Karras. It was always Karras and his men.

"Maker's breath, Anders."

Anders turned his head. Hawke stood in the doorway only a second before he hurried to kneel down next to him.

"Haw-" he tried, a hoarse wheeze coming through cracked lips.

"Shh, love. Don't talk. I'm going to get you out of here. Varric and Isabela are here, just down the hall. They'll…" Hawke turned. "Varric! Varric I need a blanket or something!" He picked up the water skin and so carefully lifted Anders' head. "Here, drink."

Anders sipped carefully at the cool water.

"Oh hell, Blondie."

A warm blanket was wrapped around him and Anders surrendered to Hawke's arms as he was carefully lifted.

"Maker, he's skin and bones," Hawke said, his voice full of panic. "We have to get him out before more templars come."

"I'll cover you," Varric said. "Go."

Anders closed his eyes as Hawke carried him out. He let his magic flow into his wounds, feeling the bones knit, and started to cry.

"Oh love, it's okay," Hawke whispered desperately. "Don't cry, Anders. I've got you now."

They moved swiftly through the underground passage, Varric and Isabela dispatching smugglers as they raced back through the sewers. Anders shivered in the damp. He blacked out again briefly and when he opened his eyes once more, he was being carried up a flight of stairs.

"Where?" he croaked.

"The estate," Hawke assured him. "Almost there."

Anders felt the warmth of a fire as Hawke carried him to a bedroom. Varric said something about fetching a tub. Hawke gently laid Anders down on the hearthrug and started to wipe away the blood. A glass vial was held to his lips. Elfroot. He swallowed greedily, his pain fading at once.

"Mine," Anders managed, with a slight smile.

Hawke chuckled. "Yes, that was one of yours. You always brewed them strong for us. Oh, Anders."

"Don't… cry," Anders said, reaching up, touching his cheek. His fingers stopped the tears before they slid into Hawke's beard.

Hawke sniffed, pulling his gauntlets off and wiping his eyes before Varric returned with Bodahn and a basin. They left the two of them alone and between Hawke's tender touch and Anders' magic, they worked to get him healed and cleaned. After, Hawke helped him into a soft robe and carried him to bed.

"Don't leave," Anders begged.

"Never."

Hawke removed the rest of his armor, washed himself, and then climbed in bed next to Anders, holding him tightly.

"Who did this?" Hawke asked.

Anders turned into his chest, clinging to him tightly, shivering despite the warm robe and blanket and embrace of his lover. "K-Karras."

"Shh. Sleep now," Hawke said, kissing his brow. "I promise I won't leave. Sleep."

Anders closed his eyes and drifted. He'd gotten only a few hours of sleep though when he started to miss the warm weight of Hawke next to him. In a panic he woke, sitting straight up in bed. Blessed sunlight streamed in through the windows. 

Hawke came through the door, carrying a breakfast tray, smiling. Anders relaxed immediately, his breathing coming back to normal.

"You all right?" Hawke asked.

"I thought… I thought you were gone. I thought you left. You promised you wouldn't go."

Hawke set the tray down, frowning. He crossed his arms. "That's only sort of true."

"What?" Anders asked, confused.

" _Hawke_ promised."

"But…"

The frown on Hawke's face turned into a sneer. His skin slowly split, black cracks appearing throughout. "But I," he said, his voice deep, distorted, "am not Hawke."

The bedroom melted away, and Anders found himself in the Fade, all his pain, his aches, the broken bones, the sheer agony returned tenfold now as his lover's skin melted, and a hulking pride demon emerged, laughing, cackling.

Anders felt his resolve splinter, mind sundering.

He was lost.


	15. Chapter 15

Bethany was unharmed. Which was, overall, a very good thing for both the templars and the mages that had dared kidnap her from the Grey Wardens in the first place. Hawke was already sick with worry over where Anders might be, added now to the fact that these people thought it wise to abduct the only remaining blood family he had left. When Hawke gave his opinion on the situation though, it was to press Cullen to show mercy to the group. Alain in particular seemed terribly upset by the ordeal. Not that Hawke could muster up a lot of sympathy, preoccupied as he was with his own concerns.

He convinced Bethany to stay at least for a few hours before she returned to her squad. And once they'd gotten behind closed doors, he hugged her tightly.

"I'm fine," she assured him.

"It's not just that," he said, voice wavering. He'd so far managed to keep himself together, but now, faced with the prospect of almost having lost her, and the fear of losing Anders weighing heavily on him, he could no longer handle it.

"Garrett, what's wrong?"

"When did you get to be stronger than me?" he asked, holding her at arm's length.

"You're scaring me," she said, reaching up to cup his chin. "Tell me, Brother, what is it?"

The story poured out of him. The fight he had with Anders, how he hadn't seen him but thought perhaps that Anders was just staying away out of hurt feelings. How the days passed without knowing where he was. Asking around everywhere, how it had been so long without seeing him, without knowing if he was alive or dead or in the Circle or if he'd left the Free Marches. Bethany hugged him tightly, soothing him.

"He wouldn't leave Kirkwall," she said.

"How do you know?"

"Because he told me once he had business here. He would never abandon his cause, Brother. Never. Not even for you, as in love with you as he might be."

_"You are the most important thing in my life. But some things matter more than my life."_

Hawke had been almost hurt when Anders said that, but he was glad of it now. There was truth to it. Even if Anders hated him, wanted him out of his life, there was no way he'd leave Kirkwall, not with his cause unfinished.

"He could be in the Gallows." Thrask, after all, didn't know everything. And Hawke could no longer ask him for information. The thought of Anders locked up under the prison was sobering.

"I can't stay to help you," she said sadly. "I wish I could. But Grey Wardens can't get involved. I have to leave soon."

He kissed her cheek. "I understand. I wish you could stay…"

"I do too."

He hugged her tightly, lifting her up off her feet. "Stay here the night if you want. I have to go to the Gallows to appease the knight-captain with an interview on what exactly happened. Conspiracies to oust templars in charge make other templars in charge very nervous."

"Go on. Stay safe, Garrett."

"You too. I mean it."

They said their goodbyes and Hawke headed out and down to Lowtown. He was about to turn the corner, passing the weapon smith as he usually did when something gold glinted in the sunlight, catching his eye. He stopped, turned, and stalked back to the stall. Amidst the stacks of swords was a familiar staff.

"Let me see that one," he said, pointing.

"Absolutely, Champion! Made of the finest aurum, this staff depicts Andraste-"

Hawke held up a hand, cutting him off. He examined the top, the runic carvings in the hilt. Though he couldn't feel the magic running through it, he knew immediately what it was. It was his father's staff. He'd never had any use for it personally, though Bethany had on occasion until she found one that better suit her school of magic. It was for a healer, she said. And he'd happily given it to Anders. It hadn't been in his clinic when Hawke went to look the first time.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded.

"Er… a begger. Wanted coin for it."

"When did you get it?"

The merchant frowned. "I dunno. Weeks ago?"

Weeks. About the same time Anders disappeared. "This staff belonged – belongs," he corrected himself with gritted teeth, "to my lover. Before that, it was my father's."

"Two sovereigns."

Hawke glared at him. "How about I just take it and don't tell the guard-captain where you get all your wares? I think I see a standard issue broadsword from one of her corporals back there."

"All right, all right!" the merchant snapped. "Bloody dog-lords. Go!"

Hawke nodded firmly and walked away, though he knew he'd pay for it later. Likely Coterie for hire would come looking for him to take either the staff or his money or even his life and then loot his corpse. They could try. He dropped the staff safely off at Varric's suite to be collected later, letting Varric know where he was headed and why, then took the ferry to the Gallows.

Knight-Captain Cullen was terribly formal, but polite, even if Hawke disagreed with just about everything that came out of his mouth. He knew the man had a past, something to do with the Ferelden Circle. Hawke asked Anders about it once, but Anders had stated it happened after his time and didn't want to talk about it. Hawke let the subject drop, though he did read that it had something to do with abominations and the knight-commander there calling for the Right of Annulment. It was no wonder Anders hadn't wanted to talk about it further.

After he answered the knight-captain's questions to the best of his ability, Hawke left the man's office, heading down the main steps into the Gallows courtyard. The sight of the first enchanter storming across the yard with several other mages in tow gave him pause. Orsino looked furious.

"Get out of my way, fool!" he shouted at a templar recruit, who quickly jumped back.

A few minutes later, Meredith followed, a group of her own men behind her. Curious now, Hawke quickened his pace. He caught up with them at the foot of the steps leading into Hightown, listening to them shout at one another.

"Knight-Commander, you cannot do this!"

"I will do and have done what is necessary to protect you mages from your curse and your own stupidity!"

"That's a harsh assessment," Hawke said, feeling a creeping irritation in his breast. "What's going on?"

"This doesn't concern you, Champion," Meredith snapped.

"You're shouting it all over Lowtown with a pretty big audience. I'd say it concerns pretty much everyone in Kirkwall at this point," Hawke replied, gauntlets flexing.

"The knight-commander has sent to Val Royeaux for the Right of Annulment. The grand cleric has already denied her," Orsino explained, spitting nails.

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "What? Why?"

Meredith turned to him. "You've seen it yourself, Champion. Demons corrupting mages and templars alike. Blood mages, abominations in every corner of this city. The only way to stop it is with the Right."

"Flattening the Gallows to get rid of a few bad apples," Hawke said. "Maybe you should annul your templars as well. You sound like Alrik, and we all know how far round the bend he went."

"Alrik," Meredith said, "had the right idea. Tranquility is the humane way-"

"You're talking about slaughtering innocent mages!" Orsino snapped. "This will not stand! I am going to the grand cleric now to sort this out before you get out of hand. The power's going to your head, Meredith!"

"I will not let you bother Her Grace with-"

"Her Grace," said a new voice – they all looked up, Sebastian coming down the steps – "is not here. She left for Val Royeaux last night, called away on important business by the Divine. What is going on?"

Meredith's lips curled into a sneer. "Is that so?" she asked, nearly purring.

Orsino's eyes widened in realization. "You can't!"

"With no revered mother and the grand cleric gone, as knight-commander of this city, I hereby invoke the Right of Annulment."

"Wait," Sebastian said, raising a hand. "There's no need for-"

Hawke felt his jaw drop. "Knight-Commander, you can't be seri-"

Meredith turned her glare on him. "You wish to join them?"

This was madness. Utter, incomprehensible madness. Meredith nodded, then started up the stairs.

"I will gather the rest of my men. Kill them all."

Hawke threw himself in front of the first enchanter without thinking, blocking a holy smite. He drew his sword and shield and joined the fight, protecting the mages. To his surprise, Sebastian joined in as well, his arrows flying through the air, taking out two of the templars left. The fight was over quickly, and Hawke turned to help Orsino to his feet.

"I thank you, Champion," he said, groaning. "Meredith's gone mad. We have to regroup. We could use your help."

Hawked looked up at Sebastian. "You…"

Sebastian shook his head sadly, looking at the bodies of the templars and mages. Only two of the group Orsino brought still stood.

"The grand cleric would never have agreed to the Right of Annulment," Sebastian said, his tone pained. "If the Knight-Commander's truly lost her mind as the rumors have stated, we will need more help than just you, Hawke."

"Rally the Guard," Hawke said. "And… and Fenris, too. If he'll come. I'll find the others. Meet us in the Gallows. We'll make a stand there."

Sebastian nodded and turned up the stairs. Hawke sighed. Even if he had no way of finding Anders, he would defend his lover's people with whatever strength he had. He made plans with Orsino to meet in the Gallows after he collected Merrill and Varric and Isabela if she deigned to come. But as he was leaving, a hand shot out from an alley and pulled him in. Hawke raised a fist.

"Wait, don't hit me!"

Hawke glared. It was a templar. "Talk."

"D-do you remember me? Hugh. I was a recruit a few years ago. You saved my friend Keran from blood mages."

Hawked looked at him. The name and the face were slightly familiar. "And?"

"I don't hold with what the Knight-Commander's doing. It's all gone wrong. She needs to be stopped. But I… I heard some of the others talking. There's a mage. Th-the healer. The one you're always with."

"Anders," Hawke said flatly, trying not to get his hopes up.

"Him, he's the one," Hugh said. "I heard Ser Karras talking. They have him."

"Where?" Hawke growled, stepping forward, advancing on him.

Hugh backed up, flush against the wall of the alley. "Under the Gallows! In the old prison! There are tunnels-"

"I know about them." Hawke turned to leave, stopped, then looked back at him. "You might want to remove your templar gear. I'm going to slaughter every last one of you bastards that I can find."

Hugh nodded quickly, and Hawke ran off, hoping it wasn't too late.


	16. Chapter 16

It was happening again.

He saw Hawke, but didn't bother to move. What was the point? He would be home at safe in bed with him and the next morning or the day after he would wake up and Hawke would be gone, a demon in his place. It happened again much the same way as it usually did. Anders could only be happy for his mana returning. But even that might not be real. When he opened his eyes again, the pain would return, he would be back on that thin pallet in that cold, dark cell.

"Anders, baby, can you hear me?"

He rolled his head to look at Hawke, who was carrying him through the Gallows. He was wrapped tightly in a blanket, his limbs aching, pain shooting from his broken bones with every jostle. The magebane Karras poured into his wounds on the last trip out of the Fade burned. It felt so real. But Anders knew better. They would break his body, but they would not break his mind. He would not succumb to this insanity. This wasn't real. The bed in the cell, the beatings, the torment, that was real.

If only Justice was still there. Anders lifted a hand and touched his chest, massaging it. The spirit was gone. Taken not by templars, but by other Fade spirits. That was, at the very least, real. Anders could no longer feel him. He no longer felt the drive of his cause. What was the point of it? If he succeeded, it wouldn't mean anything. The demons knew his mind. They knew that's what he'd wanted. They would create a victory for him, an amazing triumphant achievement. Then they'd snatch it away.

"Is that-"

Andres recognized the voice of the knight-captain.

"Maker's breath, Hawke."

Varric.

"Champion, where are you-"

"Get out of my way," Hawke snarled.

Anders winced at the clanking of plate metal. The Gallows courtyard was swarming with templars. The demons had even managed to perfect Cullen's frown, the little creases between his eyebrows. He tried to laugh, but it came out rasping, and he started to cough.

"Easy," Hawke whispered, carrying him into the ferry.

They settled down and Anders felt sick with the swaying of the boat in the bay. Hawke was saying something to the ferryman. The clink of coin. Maker, why wouldn't they let him just wake up? He coughed again, bringing up bile and blood, and Hawke wiped off his chin so tenderly.

"It's okay, love. You're going to be okay."

No he wasn't. Nothing was okay anymore. He would die in that cell, his purpose at an end. But now death would be a mercy.

"Kill me," he whispered.

Hawke closed his eyes, and Anders saw tears spill from them, down his cheek, into his beard. Anders didn't wipe them away this time. If the demon wanted to cry, wanted to convince him this was real by using Hawke's face, then so be it. He wondered if it was a desire demon or a pride one. Or perhaps a lesser? It was impossible to tell. The spirits that shaped the Fade were too powerful for him.

It was night, he noticed. The same darkness that blanketed the sky the first time this happened. Little things were different though. No moon tonight, the sun just starting to rise. It was colder than he remembered, too.

_Tricky demons,_ Anders thought with a smirk. _Change things up to make me believe this is real._

"Is that Anders?"

Sebastian's voice.

"Andraste give me strength, what happened to him?"

He sounded concerned. About _him._ _Sebastian._ It was ridiculous.

"Just help me," Hawke replied.

Anders saw the tops of the buildings change from Lowtown's tan colored stone to Hightown's dark grey. Hawke had taken him through the Gallows, through the city and they were approaching his mansion. The first time, they'd simply gone through the sewers, into the basement. The trip would've been quicker. Probably not a pride demon then. They wouldn't want to damage their ego by not picking the perfect route to the estate. Or would they?

It would stand to reason that they would pretend to take an inconvenient path just to make him believe that this was real. That he wasn't actually still curled up in that cell. But Anders was smarter. He wouldn't give in to their temptations, their lies. He would be stronger.

"I'll call for a healer," Sebastian said.

_I am a healer._

"Please."

Sebastian raced out and Anders was settled in a wooden tub full of water. Water. _NO!_

"Please NO! NO! Don't put me there! PLEASE, I'll do anything! Not the tub!"

His flailing caught the demon off guard and Anders' fist caught him in the jaw.

"Anders! Anders, it's okay! Okay, no tub, I promise."

Anders clung to him, the demon, as if he was a man drowning. He was settled instead on the floor in front of the fire. Hawke gently removed the blanket from him.

"Maker's breath, Anders, what did they do to you?"

Anders didn't answer, rolling off his back to relieve the pressure of the pain. He let Hawke do whatever he wanted. A warm wet cloth began washing away the blood and the dirt. Anders didn't care. It wouldn't matter. As soon as he woke up again or whenever Karras pulled him out of the Fade, he'd be back, strung up against the wall. Perhaps the fork again to keep him from sleeping. Or the pear to break him open once more. Or on the rack to stretch and pop his joints. They'd threatened something called _la vierge de fer_ , a device leftover from the Orlesian occupation of Kirkwall.

The door opened and the cloth stopped for a moment as Hawke spoke with Sebastian and someone else. Anders watched the fire. He was shifted this way and that, like a rag doll. The Chantry sister healed him with poultices, Hawke kneeling by, holding his hand tightly as she cleaned him up. Anders' head rolled to the right and he looked up through the shadows of the room. Sebastian stood against the wall, quiet and contemplative, arm wrapped around his middle, hand of the other tapping his chin.

"Are you a desire demon?" Anders asked.

He couldn't wrap his head around why the demons would put Sebastial Vael of all people in that room. Varric, Isabela, even Merrill. His friends. People who liked him. Did the demons think it added a touch of realism?

"No," Sebastian said, frowning, looking to Hawke.

"Then you should leave," Anders said, not really expecting him to.

Hawke waved him off though, thanking him, and Sebastian disappeared through the door. The Chantry sister did what she could with the herbs and medicine she had. Hawke gave her a coin purse which she refused to take, but he insisted.

"Put it in the charity box, but take it," he pressed.

She nodded. "Maker watch over you and yours, serah."

And they were alone. Hawke removed his armor, leaving it in the bathing room, and gathered Anders up again. He was clean now, though most of his wounds remained. No doubt the demons would want him to heal himself up. He could even feel his mana returning. But he didn't bother. Even if he did heal himself in the real world, Karras and the others would just hurt him again.

"You're going to be fine now," Hawke whispered, carrying him into the bedroom.

Anders settled into the large bed, trying not to enjoy the warmth and comfort. It was all just an illusion anyway. Hawke brushing the hair from his forehead, kissing his brow.

"I've got to go send word to Varric. There was a… an upset in Gallows. Both the first enchanter and the knight-commander are dead."

Anders looked at him. "Why are you telling me this? Just kill me. Or send me back. I don't care."

Hawke's pained look was very authentic. Anders reached up and patted him on the cheek.

"We've done this before. Don't be sad. One of your brothers put me through the same thing. Three times already. Just kill me. I don't want to do this anymore. I'm tired."

He rolled over, away from Hawke.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"I'll be back in ten minutes," Hawke promised, and kissed his temple.

Anders felt the bed shift with Hawke's weight, heard the door open and close. He let his magic flow through him, healing the aches in his body. Sleeping in the Fade at least was restful. And he would need it for when he woke.

For when Karras or the demon – whoever got to him first – returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends Part 1. Part 2 will be up by the end of the weekend more than likely, possibly sooner depending on edits. Thanks everyone for reading so far, and especially thanks to the OP that gave such a great prompt on the kink meme in the first place!


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